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THE AMEN CORNER 



AND 



OTHEP POEMS. 



BY LOUIS EISENBEIS, 

West Chester, Pa. 




TWO COPIES HECEiVLD 



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2904 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1897, 

By LOUIS EISENBEIS, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



F. S. Hickman, 

Printer and Publisher, 

West Chester, Pa. 



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M^0 ir)z felessea irjergapy et etr) 

et^eciiorjGtfe yi0ft)zp, 

1 weuld. loviijaly irjsoPiBZ 

fr)is r)un)Ble valuirjz. 

H^r)e very Jaesf eriaeet^eps ecrja 

resulfs at rrjy lit®; 

i 0we fa r)ep oourjsels, 

r)ep lai/e aria l)ep 

rapayePSi 




ppEmcii. 



N presenting to the public this humble volume of 
original Poems, I respectfully bespeak for it a 
kindly reception, whatever -may be its literary 
merit or demerit. I have ever kept before me in the 
preparation of its composition a question of conscience, 
namely — What will be its ;;/<7r<a;/ effect upon the reader? 
Hence, I have aimed to make it an humble contribution 
to the moral good of all who may chance peruse its lines. 
The Poems herein collected, are the work of many 
years of reflection, experience and observation ; personal 
acquaintance and reminiscence, throughout this commu- 
nity, in which I have resided since my earliest childhood. 
Memories connected with our local history, deserving 
preservation, and thoughts of general interest, worthy of 
recognition, are modestly embalmed in verse. 

Again let me ask a gentle judgment upon this, the 
first public literary venture of my life. 

Respectfully yours, 

Louis Eisenbeis, 

WEST CHESTER, PA. 



THE OLD "AMEN CORNER." 

^y^OU ask me why I look so sad, a sayin not a word, 
Why Beckie ! thoughts of long ago, my memory have stirred ; 
I'm thinking of the meetin house, where preached old Father 

Horner, 
But, mostly, I've been thinkin 'bout that dear old " amen corner." 

Them days have long since fled and gone ; dear friends have 

passed away ; 
And even that old meetin house is goin to decay ; 
I look around among the folks ; if any I may see ; 
But all are gone, it seems to rtie, but Becky, you and me. 

I see the dear old corner yet ; 'twas close beside the altar ; 
Them good old souls whose seats were there, had faith that 

wouldn't falter. 
Their hearts were all aglow with love, their shouts would awe the 

scorner, 
Like thunder claps, their loud "amens," would shake the "amen 

corner." 

Indeed, it seemed sometimes, we sat by cool Siloam's fountain ; 
And then again, we seemed to stand on Sinai's awful mountain ; 
No matter what the text might be, for sinner, saint, or mourner, 
There always flamed the Spirit's lire, around the "amen corner." 

It was as if the Pentecost, with flaming tongues of fire, 
Was still a bringin heaven down, and liftin souls up higher ; 
And loud as was the earnest voice of dear old Father Horner, 
Far louder were the glad amens, that shook the " amen corner." 

That dear old spot was holy ground, the very gate of heaven ; 
The glory cloud seemed restin there, by mercy's shower riven ; 



lo THE AMEN CORNER AND .0 THER POEMS. 

The manna and the smitten rock, our hungry souls sustainin, 
Along the road beset with foes, from Egypt up to Canaan. 

Sometimes, I well remember yet, things seemed a little dreary ; 
The meetin's 'peared a little slow, the people dull and weary ; 
Then victory would seem to be with Satan, and the scorner. 
Until a hallelujah broke from out the "amen corner." 

Then, quick as lightning, things would change, the foe would 

flee before us. 
And shouts of glory ! praise the Lord ! would blend in mity 

chorus ; 
I tell you, Becky, 'tis a truth, it cheered the weakest mourner, 
Old Satan never could prevail against that " amen corner." 

The tears will dim my failin eyes, my heart gets almost broken, 
When now I'm in the meetin house, with not an " amen " spoken ; 
Our preacher is a learned man, not much like Father Horner, 
Who preaches, while the people snore in that old " amen corner." 

They've got a bran new meeting house, with cushions for the 

people. 
And windows made of painted glass, and on the top, a steeple. 
An organ does the praisin now, they've no bench for the mourner, 
They've brussels carpet on the floor, but where's the " amen 

corner?" 

I tell you, Becky, I believe, that's why we keep retreating ; 
The world and Satan have combined, to give the church a beatin ; 
They say they've found a better way, ''■religion has no mourner,^^ 
And so they've smashed the mourner's bench, and killed the 
" amen corner." 

But wife, there's one thing comforts me, the church will be a standin. 
When Satan and his scoffing crew have made a final landin ; 
The church is built on solid rock, and proof against the scorner ; 
We'll find the New Jerusalem, much like the "amen corner." 



ODE TO CHESTER. 



ODE TO CHESTER. 

WHO does not love fair Chester's name 
Her wealth of love, her classic fame ? 
Her lofty deeds, her charms divine, 
Among the Nation's archives shine. 
Her clovered fields, her fragrant vales, 
Her woody hills, kissed by the gales ; 
Her babbling brooks go laughing by. 
With answering echoes from the sky, 
And flower and shrub and leafy tree 
Responsive, join the melody ; 
And nature blends in choral strain. 
To laud fair Chester's honored name — 
Who does not love fair Chester's soil ? 
Enriched by wealth of honest toil ; 
Her sturdy yeomen, true and tried. 
Exalt her fair ancestral pride ; 
And everywhere the tongues of men 
With reverence, speak her name of Penn — 
Fair name ! sweet synonym of peace ; 
Thy golden lustre nee'r shall cease. 
Did ee'r a name earth's annals gild, 
A name so true, on which to build ? 
On which to lay the walls of State, 
Of Freedom's temple, strong and great — 
Ah, who shall chide fair Chester's glee 
Or boast a nobler ancestry? 
For who among the sons of men, 
More noble, than the sons of Penn ? — 
What marvel then if men concede. 
Fair Chester's sons are kings indeed, 
And all her daughters reigning queens, 
Whose charms are fair as fairy dreams — 
Who would not covet Chester's hills ? 



THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

Or stroll beside her merry rills ? 
Or bathe beneath her sunset ray, 
That floods the slope of closing day ? 
Or stand transfigured in the glow, 
Where sunbeams shout to vales below? 
Chester, the nation, bows to thee. 
For in thy soil fair freedom's tree 
Took deeper root— its sheltering shade 
For universal man was made. 
'Twas here oppression's galling yoke 
The sturdy blow of freedom broke, 
And man erect, on freedom's sod, 
Stands forth the noblest work of God. 
Fair Chester ! how envious thy bliss. 
To share in such a work as this ; 
'Twere vain to invoke the poet's pen. 
To name thy charms to wondering men. 
'Twere vain to seek the artist's skill, 
To paint thy flowering vale and hill, 

For where is he with tact divine 

Can sketch thy charming Brandywine ? 

Her sparkling sheen, her merry glow. 

The music of her rippling flow, 

Her gently sloping, mossy banks 

Bend lowly down in flowery thanks. 

Till all the echoing hills are stirred 

With answering notes of lowing herd, 

And nature, with a smile of bliss. 

Is eager to imprint her kiss ; 

And scented slirub and trailing vine 

Sing songs to ihee, oh, Brandywine ! 

Fair Brandywine, once, years agone. 

Thy skies were red with gathering storm, 

A throb of fear, a blush of shame, 

Bemarred thy cheek with nameless pain. 

When hostile foot of foreign foe. 

Trod savagely thy shimmering glow. 

And sabre flash and cannon's roar 



ODE TO CHESTER. 13 

Shook all thy hills with clang of war, 

And mingled with thy crystal flood 

The crimsom tide of patriot blood. 

But once, the battle's fiery breath 

Transformed thee into vale of death, 

Baptised in blood fair Freedom's shrine. 

The blood that flowed at Brandywine. 

Let freemen stand with reverent breath 

Where surged that day the blast of death. 

'Twas then, the quaint old meeting place. 

Indignant, veiled its placid face, 

While 'round it roared the madden'd gale 

That swept, anon, the fiery hail ; 

Till, when the fateful night had come, 

And stilled the furious battle hum. 

Exultant Briton little dreamed. 

Despite the flash of swords that gleamed, 

That e'en the gloom of Birmingham 

Meant victory for the rights of man ; — 

Yea, e'en the sun of Brandywine 

Shed hope upon the shattered line ; 

For when the hapless day was done, 

Unconquered stood brave Washington, 

His sword unsheathed for God and right, 

Despite the terrors of the night ; 

And patriots, though with 'bated breath, 

Still shouted " Liberty or death ! " 

Was ever Freedom's name so dear ? 

Was ever host so void of fear ? 

Was ever mortal man so brave. 

Or slept within a nobler grave 

Than that brave host, whose bleeding feet 

Made roseate path through snow and sleet ? 

Tattered, shoeless, on they trod, 

With hope for man and faith in God ; 

With steady step and upturned eye, 

Hope gleamed athwart a darkened sky ; 

While downward flashed on freedom's shrine, 



14 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

The ruddy sun of Brandy wine. 

Oh, Chester ! for thee unbounded praises blend, 

Where shall thy glowing chapters end ? 

All o'er thy consecrated soil, 

We trace the invader's hideous spoil. 

Paoli guards her hallowed mound 

And shows her scars and ghastly wound, 

Within her shaded solitude ; 

E'en Freedom blushes to intrude. 

With muffled drum and silent tread. 

She weeps above her martyred dead. 

No marvel, Chester's sons revere 

The soil, by patriot blood made dear : 

Her crimsoned fields, her battle scars 

Shed lustre on the stripes and stars. 

And honors fall from King and Queen, 

Where'er thy glorious flag is seen. 

Upon thy folds, oh, fair ensign, 

Proud Chester prints her Brandywine. 

Paoli dyes with deeper red, 

The crimson stripes, all o'er it spread, 

While vale and hill and mountain gorge. 

Re-echo Chester's Valley Forge. 

Where in the deep, dark winter's glow, 

'Mid blinding sleet and drifting snow, 

Through trackless forest, wild and bleak. 

The bleeding footsteps vainly speak. 

But see ! the chieftain makes his plea, 

In trembling voice, on bended knee. 

A Washington bows calmly there. 

And breathes a faint, but answered prayer ; 

A prayer that gave a nation birth 

And crowned it monarch of the earth. 

And so, the crimson path they trod 

Meant hope for man, and faith in God — 

Bleak Valley Forge and Brandywine 

Are fragrant now with Freedom's vine, 

Whose fruitage fills the teeming land, 



ODE TO CHESTER. 15 

With health and wealth, with lavish hand — 

Oh, Chester ! high within the niche of Fame 

Is chiseled thy immortal name. 

For pride of soil and noble deed, 

Courage to press where heroes lead, 

Has made thy name to glow and shine, 

A fadeless gem, in Freedom's shrine. 

Thy honest yeomen, stalwart, staid, 

Men of skill in mart and trade, 

Statesmen, heroes, sons of toil. 

Men of might, born of thy soil — 

Illustrious Wayne, whose fiery eye 

And flashing sword made Briton fly. 

Intrepid Hickman, void of dread, 

Who stamped on Treason's hydra head. 

And shouted loud, o'er hill and glen, 

"Stand by the flag, like loyal men ! " 

Heroic Pennypacker, brave in deeds, 

Up " Fisher's " fiery slope he leads ; 

High upon the rampart's rocky crag. 

He flings aloft the starry flag— 

For brilliant dash and glory won, 

Proud Chester claims her honored son. 

Silence ! See that embattled throng. 

Who smote with death the hideous wrong. 

Who leaped from Chester's classic soil. 

To wrest the nation from its spoil ; 

And snatched the trailing flag from shame. 

And flung it to the breeze again. 

What pen shall write on Heroes' scroll 

The nameless host, the shining roll i 

Or who inscribe in living flame 

The matchless splendor of their fame ? 

Silence ! They sleep in peaceful sleep, 

Where freedom's angels vigil keep, 

The weary march, the battle's roar, 

Disturb their slumbers never more — 

Can we forget heroic Bell 



1 6 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

Who nobly for his country fell ; 
Can I forget a brother's grave, 
Who died the nation's flag to save ? 
Can we forget brave Mclntyre 
Who faced dark treason's hottest fire ; 
Caruthers, Roberts, true and tried, 
Who on their country's altar died ? 
Nay, forever dear to Chester's heart 
Are they, who pierced by treason's dart, 
Sealed with their blood the nation's life 
And perished in the deadly strife. 
Yet other names, known far and wide, 
Are Chester's heritage of pride- 
Bayard Taylor — sea and land 
Are radiant 'neath his skillful hand. 
And beauty gleams with diamond glow. 
Where e'er his journeyed footsteps go ; 
And joy and cheer and good for men. 
Drop richly from his magic pen. 
Buchanan Read, whose classic name 
Is lustrous with poetic flame. 
His name and fame the world shall read. 
Ablaze, on Sheridan's fiery steed, 
Who sniffed the battle, saved the day, 
" With Sheridan twenty miles away." 
Everhart, whose classic lore. 
Wins glad acclaim from shore to shore. 
The nation's Congress bends its ear 
His polished eloquence to hear ; 
A statesman, dignified and true. 
Whose country's good he kept in view. 
Lewis — MacVeagh, the nation's choice. 
Whose trusty counsel, earnest voice. 
When skies were dark and storms withstood. 
Were loyal for the nation's good. 
No marvel then that Chester's name 
Should bear the wealth of fadeless fame, • 
O'er shaded by the flag, for aye, 



ODE TO CHESTER. 17 

The fairest flag beneath the sky. 
Chester ! freedom wreathes thy brow, 
No truer son hath she than thou. 
Chester, for thee no bound is set ; 
Thy charms exhaustless, sparkle yet. 
Praise must yield a well earned share 
For stately dame and maiden fair, 
For these are Chester's bounding wealth. 
Her laughing eye and rosy health. 
Her sprightly cheer and power to bless. 
Her beauty and her loveliness. 
In loving word and kindly deed, 
In time of tears, in time of need, 
Where want, and pain and grief appall. 
Where pangs afilict and sorrows fall. 
There Chester's daughters true and brave, 
Like Mercy's angels haste to save — 
Proud Chester ! all thy sons declare 
No daughters 'neath the sky so fair — 
But how shall we thy honors blend ? 
Or where the glowing numbers end. 
Her halls of learning, schools of fame, 
Her templed hills, of holy aim. 
The unpretentious wayside school. 
That flings broadcast its wholesome rule, 
Like sleepless sentinels, day and night. 
Stand guard to point the path of light ; 
And childhood trained in mind and heart. 
Goes forth to act the better part 
Unsullied, by whate're thy fate. 
The joy of home, the pride of state — 
Ne'er let a son of Chester's name 
Tinge her cheek with blush of shame. 
But here, abroad, in rest or toil, 
Shed lustre on his native soil — 
Still, bear in mind 'tis worse than vain. 
Alone, to culture gifts of brain. 
The heart needs have its moral check, 



1 8 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

Else both alike shall prove a wreck — 
Oh, Chester ! grave, thy duties are, 
Thou standest at the Judgment bar, 
What is the verdict of thy fate ? 
What is the record thou shalt make ? 
If thou shalt train thy rising youth 
For usefulness to Right and Truth ; 
Then shall thy glory fadeless be. 
And all thy sons shall honor thee. 



/ 

^ 

&\'i% 



CENTENNIAL OF 1S76. 19 



CENTENNIAL OE 1576. 

STANDING on the Century's sublimest peak, 
We hear the drums of Freedom grandly beat ; 
A mighty shout comes up the mountain side, 
Majestic as old ocean's rolling tide : 
Hark ! 'tis Columbia's grand Centennial song, 
That rings in triumph from the exultant throng, — 
"A hundred years," they sing ; "A hundred years, to-day," 
Since Columbia first caught glimpse of Freedom's ray ; 
Well may she sing her choral song of praise, 
For God's best gifts, demand her loudest lays — 
A hundred years ! and still, the Nation grows ; . 
Aye ! she's but an infant in swaddling clothes. 
Her well formed features, and her ruddy health 
Bespeak her vigor, and her exhaustless wealth. 
Born of the ages, nursed on Freedom's breast, 
Her name Liberty, the world's most honored guest. 
Inheritor of fame's proud legacy of might, 
Of truth and power, the insignia of right ; — 
A giant of days, the lightning of whose eye 
Makes Despots tremble, and Tyrants quake and fly. 
With voice of thunder, she wakes the slumbering earth. 
And Nations struggle into nobler birth : — 
Ho ! all ye people, of every name and hue, 
Here Freedom spreads her banner, grand and true ; 
Here fetters break and crumble, and man may rise 
To peaks of glory, towering to the skies — 
No lordly cast or title ; nor kingly claim : 
Columbia's badge of honor is Soul and Brain. 
Here Man is Ma7i, the noblest work of God, 
Whose right is sacred, as the world is broad ; 
Broad as Columbia's proud unwalled domain : 
Aye ! broad as civilization's wide extended reign. 
For where e're floats the ensign of the free. 



20 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

There Potentates respect, and bow the reverent knee — 

Once, to be a Roman, was a Roman's pride, 

But 'twas pride of shame, of war's destructive tide. 

Of fire and sword, of Nations crushed and torn. 

Of rights despised, of justice held to scorn — 

To be an American is a nobler name, 

A synonym of Freedom, Manhood, Fame ; 

A name revered by Scepters, Thrones and Kings ; 

Whose praise the teeming earth, in honor sings — 

Here Science rears her pillars, crowned with light, 

And Genius plumes her wings for loftier flight. 

Here Art and Letters, take each other's hand, 

To bless all races, of our fav'ored land ; 

The broad expanse of Freedom's natal soil. 

Is made impregnable, by Chapel, School and Toil. 

The humblest laborer may thwart his hard decree. 

And rise to rule the mightiest nation of the free — 

All hail, fair land ! firm may thy pillars be ; 

May God who gave, preserve, thy liberty. 

May no rude hand pluck a single star 

From off^ the Flag, whose beauty gleams afar. 

May unborn millions rally firm and true. 

In ceaseless loyalty to the " Red, White and Blue.'" 

All hail ! Columbia, ride on, in majesty and might. 

Fulfil thy high born mission, for truth and right ; 

Thy watchword. Peace, bold to maintain the truth. 

Fidelity to right, will give thee fadeless youth ; 

With steady eye, press forward to the goal. 

Nor let one faltering step mar the beauteous whole, — 

What wonders have been wrought— these hundred years ; 

Wonderful the Nation's growth, how vigorous she appears ; 

At first, but thirteen fickle States, unhonored, scarcely known, 

Now, thirty-eight, not States, but Empires, welded into one, 

Her front against the ice-bound northern pole, 

To where the Gulf stream's placid waters roll ; 

From Plymouth Rock, where pilgrims espied the land. 

To broad Pacific's billowy golden strand. 

Once three million subjects, of a kingly state ; 



CENTENNIAL OF 1876. 

Now Forty Millions Freemen, brave, and great, 

What wondrous achievements too, the years reveal. 

States bolted indissolubly, by bolts and bars of steel. 

O'er which the freighted traffic of unnumbered mills. 

Goes thundering through the valleys, and o'er the hills ; — 

The slowly lumbering coach of days of yore, 

Has vanished, in the mist, of steam's majestic roar. 

All hail, American genius ! twas thy subduing lash, 

That caught and tamed, the lightening's zig zag flash ; 

And now, as swift as thought, and noiseless as the breeze, 

Thy words go flashing o'er Continents and Seas. 

The subtle current of nature's throbbing soul 

Equipped and harnessed, bows to thy control. 

Columbia ! hast thou a limit to thy boundary line 

Beyond which, thou canst not go nor climb ? 

Is aught too much for thee, thou giant of the age ? 

Verily thy strength, exhaustless, thy wisdom, sage. 

Onward ! ever onward, thy brilliant flight, 

Till man is free, from slavery and blight ; 

Conquering the foes of truth, battling 'gainst sin ; 

Let right sway thy scepter, not war's dread din. 

Let God rule thy councils. His word thy law of state, 

This only, shall make thee impregnable and great. 

On this proud summit, thy skies be clear. 

Till the trump shall sound thy Millenial Year. 



22 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



OUR CHURCH SOCIABLE. 

WHAT'S got the matter in the church, have Christians quit a 
speakin'? 
Because the preacher said to-day, "We'll have a social meetin," 
He wanted all to come, he said, and speak and git acquainted : 
It sounded so outlandish queer, I purty nearly fainted. 

Somehow, I got the notion, that members of a meetin. 
Don't have to first git introduced, to give a friendly greetin ; 
Them kind of people 'pears to me, have souls as tufif as leather, 
They ought to have religion 'nuff, to bind 'em all together. 

I never knowed until to-day, the Church was so unsainted. 
That when you once got in 'twas hard, to speak and git acquainted ; 
Doesjinin meetin change the face of sister and of brother. 
So dreadful much that when they meet, they hardly know each 
other? 

It cant be so — for last washday — the children were a screamin. 
They come to git the pew rent, I was washin, scrubbin, cleanin. 
And though I hardly knowed myself, I looked so out of season. 
They really called me by my name, and smiled so sweet and 
pleasin. 

They knowed me, but there's some, who 'pear to've lost their 

reason ; 
They keep a bringin ice in, to give the folks a freezin ; 
They'll give you chills in August, an cold as blocks of granite. 
And then they hold their heads so high, you'd think they'd bump a 

planet. 

Why, only last communion day, I seen a deacon brother. 

Just after Parson Brown had preached on, '' Lovin one another,'''' 



OUR CHURCH SOCIABLE. 23 

Pull out his pocket handkercher, and wipe his weepin eye, 
And when I turned to speak to him, he coolly passed me by. 

Another time, I mind it well, I often think upon it, 
I wore my yaller weddin dress, and green Parisian bonnet, 
I think they took me for a queen ; for all the time of meetin, 
They stared at me, and at the close, such smilin and a speakin ! 

Each one seemed bound to shake my hand, and there was Deacon 

Weaver, 
He pushed so hard to speak to me, he smashed his bran new 

beaver ; 
I laughed right out in meetin, till I couldn't see for tears. 
But I tell you, it was socialer, than I had seen for years. 

But only think ! one week from that, though John somewhat 

upbraided, 
I wore my clean washed gingham frock, 'twas just a little faded ; 
I took my seat inside the pew, and listened to the sermon. 
While next me sat the banker's wife, a twistin and a squirmin. 

I wondered what the matter was, she looked so pale and sickly ; 
When meetin broke, I turned to speak, but my ! she got off 

quickly. 
I then struck down the crowded aisle, to shake hands with the 

sexshun. 
And everybody turned their back, or looked the wrong direction. 

It struck me most amazin queer, that no one 'peared to know me. 
How they forgot my face so soon, I'd like some one to show me ; 
But then I just remember now, my dear first husband's sayin — 
" A peacock gits a heap of praise for feathers he's displayin." 

And so says I, that must be it ; but it kinder seems distressin, 
To make religion frown or smile, 'cordin to your dressin, 
It makes me think of Lazarus at the rich man's wealthy quarter, 
And the rich man, once in purple robes, a beggin coolin water — 



24 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

'Tis vexin to my righteous soul, a seein sich behavin, 

For wrappin souls in shinin silk, doesn't do the savin, 

Ah, no ! dressin never makes a saint, no more'n six makes seven, 

For Satan even tries to dress, like angels do in heaven. 

If dressin in the latest style is what the church is needin 
Then what's the use of preachin, or of havin Bible readin ? 
The church would be a dressin show, and meetins prove a failer. 
And the cheapest way to git to heaven, would be, to cheat the 
tailor. 

It's pride and money, dress and show, that's killing up the meetin. 
If they don't want us poor folks there, just let 'em quit a speakin, 
And every time they see our face, pretend they never knew us, 
But look above, or back, or down, or any where, but to us. 

I want to see 'em shakin hands, as if they knowed each other ; 
And not as if they thought they'd ketch the small-pox from their 

brother, 
I like a good old-fashioned shake, that sets the soul a blazin. 
That makes the poor man think he's rich, and sets 'em all to 

praisin. 

That warms and melts 'em into one, by livin coals of prayer. 

So none shall think they're better, cause they have good clothes 

to wear. 
And whether in sunshine or in storm, in plenty or in losses. 
They all would help each other 'long, and bear each other's 

crosses. 

For 'taint no use to sing and pray, or have protracted meetin, 
Unless you wear a lovin smile, and show a kindly greetin, 
For souls cannot be floated on, toward the golden throne, 
By sailin in a bubble, on a sea of sweet cologne. 



'' HOW OLD ART THO Ur ' 25 



" HOW OLD ART THOU ?" 

Gen. xlvh : 8. 

To Rev. Alfred- G. Compton, of West Chester, Pa. 
4-20-188S. 



"MOW old art thou?"— Three score and nine, 
' I The mystic voices of the years reply, 
'Tis well to pause amid the years glad chime, 

To catch life's music as the years go by. 
The flight of days, the rush of restless years. 

Is not to thee a voiceless, songless bird. 
But music sweet, as music of the spheres, 

A melody of harps, by Angel fingers stirred. 
These ever hastening years, what do they say ? 

What is the poetry of their plaintive song ? 
'Tis faith, 'tis hope, the Spirit's sway, 

Dear ties of love, indissoluble and strong. 
And so though oft in life's eventful glade, 

'Mid darksome shadows cast athwart thy way, 
Hope's sweetest flowers at thy feet were laid ; 

Though some were crushed, their fragrance lives to-day. 
Sometimes, 'mid life's mysterious gloom. 

The heart will quail, the eyes with tears o'erflow ; 
'Tis then the Father speaks, and radiance bright as noon 

Comes streaming down, and life is all aglow. 
'Tis sweet indeed, to retrospect the years, 

Illumed by faith ; and cheered by gospel grace— 
And though three score and nine, on the dial appears, 

A youthful vigor in thy form we trace. 
Thy locks may whiten by the frost of time, 

The wintry blasts of age blow chill and cold ; 



26 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

For thee, the flight of years shall but refine, 

But never make thy spirit sad nor old. 
Long may thy home be bright with cheer and health, 

To thee, to loved companion, dear ones, all ! — 
Let Heaven's blessing ; the soul's abiding wealth 

Like fruitful showers, upon thy dwelling fall — 
Go on dear brother, as in the days gone by. 

Make known the Master's all subduing word. 
Thy high commission bear, spare not, but loudly cry. 

Till sleeping souls to Hfe and light are stirred. 
Toil on ! toil on ! may life and strength be given. 

To stand yet long, on Zion's towering wall, 
A watchman brave and true, for God and heaven, 

Proclaim, proclaim, the gospel's gladsome call — 
I need not ask again—" How old art thou ? " 

But wish thee all thy years, and many more ; 
A host of friends unite, to make their bow 

And place their kindly greetings at thy door. 



"WHAT IS YOUR LirE?" 

OUR life is but a moment's space, 
Betwixt the cradle and the grave, 
A short, a strange mysterious race, 

Which ends alike to King and slave, 
A flash, a gleam of fleeting years. 

Then all is o'er, the race is run. 
Possessing either end of fears. 

Or gloom, unrent by shining sun. 
The sprightly youth, with buoyant heart, 

The infant on its mother's knee, 
And tottering age, alike depart, 

And drop into eternity. 
Coerced to part with those we love. 

It matters not how dear ; yea all 1 



" WHAT IS YOUR LIFE?" 27 

But blessed thought ! there is above, 

A land unmarred by death's dark pall — 
I hear a voice — " there's no decay," 

Yonder, all is pure and fair, 
No night, but one eternal day, 

No death, but life unending there. 
There joy, unsullied joys, abound, 

And fadeless verdure crowns its plains, 
Its mountain heights are glory crowned, 

And echo to the harper's strains — 
But ah ! our feet still linger here, 

Our pulses beat the march of death, 
Our eyes suffuse with sorrow's tear, 

And shorter grows each passing breath — 
Not yet, the Father says — " not yet," 

Thou must a little longer tread, 
Where sin has spread its tangled net 

Among the ruins of the dead — 
Oh earth ! thou charnel house of death, 

Thou dost but mock our piteous cry — 
How shall we escape thy foetid breath ? 

Must we inhale thy breath and die ? 
Ah yes, with birth, are sown the seeds, 

That bud and blossom for the tomb. 
Ripening as our life proceeds. 

And dealing each, a common doom. 
The air we breathe the food we eat, 

The sparkling water that we drink. 
Are but so many helps to greet 

The monster, at the river's brink. 
But ah ! I hear that voice again, 

Be still faint heart, tis best, tis best — 
Why shouldst thou faint or falter, when 

Thou knowest this is noi thy rest. 



28 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



THE CHURCH IN LUCRE HOLLOW. 

THE brethering in Lucre Hollow, were disturbed a heap in 
mind ; 
For they were agoin backward, and the salary was behind. 
They'd promised the preacher when he come, four hundred 

dollars a year, 
But the way things was agoin, showed sumthin out of gear ; 
They hadn't pade two hundred yit, an the year was nearly gone ; 
And how to get the balance up, was what they were worryin on. 

The preacher, he was powerful ; his sermons had the ring 
Of solid gospel preachin ; they were just the very thing. 
He didn't give em flowers, fer to look at an be saved ; 
To feed on, or to smell at, fer to lift up the depraved ; 
But he give em gospel wittles, spreadin a temptin store, 
Enuff for each, enuff fer all, enuff fer evermore. 

I never seen a preacher yit, have such a winnin knack — 

If a wanderin sheep ud git astray, sumhow he'd bring it back — 

He'd git around among the fokes, with most amazin vini, 

An whether they was rich or poor, it made no odds to him. 

But they was all a stewin, fer the money didn't cum, 

An there was a heep a talkin, j'ist how to raise the sum. 

They called a fishel meetin ; Deekin Pinch-Gold, he was there ; 
He had lots an lots uv money, but he'd mity little to spare. 
He riz, and sed he wanted for to tell the fishel board, 
We was payin too much salary, more'n we could afford. 
Says he, "We've raised two hundred, jis a dollar for us each ; 
But to pay four hundred dollars, is jis more'n we kin reach." 

Then there was Deekin Blow-hard, he was settin in the cheer ; 
He had some Bible notions, that seemed a little queer. 



THE CHURCH IN L UCRE HOLLO W. 29 

He said he 'greed that preachers, needed wittles, clothes and 
shoes, 

" But, they orter preach fer nuthin, cos they say, they daren't re- 
fuse." 

Why says he, " Paul got no salary, and he even paid his rent. 

An he preached, an preached fer nuthin, an he didn't charge a 
cent." 

Then Doctor Feel-big riz to speak, an he hove a heavy sigh, 
An says he, " The trouble's here. Our preacher is too dry. 
He's way behind the living age, he's neither learned nor choice ; 
He mingles with the poor too much, and has a horrid voice ; 
His grammar is outrageous ; his articulation poor ; 
Gesticulation awkward, too shocking to endure. 
The times demand a cultured head, and logic without flaws, 
A pious heart may be all right ; we want a man that draws.'''' 

Then, Deekin Save -a II got the floor ; says he, " Don't think me 

rash ; 
The reason things are goin wrong, we're spendin too much cash. 
We spent five dollars to carpet the floor — that was a heavy tax ; 
An now we've give five dollars more, to them heathen Chinee 

chaps. 
That's the way our money goes, a sendin it all away. 
To feed them fellers o'er the seas ; no wonder we've nuthin to pay. 
I've told the brethering time and agin, it seemed so plaguey queer, 
They didn't lower the salary, to three hundred dollars a year." 

An now thinks I, it's my turn, to give a word or two ; 
Fer I felt my blood a bilin so, I couldn't keep my pew. 
"Brethering," says I, " fer forty years I've trod the King's high- 
way. 
An I never heerd until to-night, religion didn't pay. 
I'll tell you what the matter is, this church is losin breath, 
Fer tryin to keep the meetin's up, by starvin em to death. 
Now wind is good to blow with ; but, I've found it was the rule. 
If yer want to run a rale road train, yer got to have some fule. 
How's the preacher goin to preach, if yer give him nuthin to eat? 



30 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

Kin he git fat on nuthin while you must have yer meat ? 

You have yer homes of plenty, an yer stocks, an bonds, an deeds ; 

But you love yer clinkin dollars more'n you do, the church's needs. 

I tell you, if yer want to git to heaven, by and by, 

Ye'd better loose yer purse-strings, for yer'll have to when yer die. 

"Git yer pocket books converted ! let the church be warmed an 

fed! 
An yer'll not be goin backward, but yer'll git away ahead. 
Why, the Lord won't let you fellers git too near the Golden Gate, 
Fer ye'd coin it into dollars to increase yer reel estate ; 
Gittin dollars will not save you ; what's the use of hoardin, then ? 
Quit yer pinchin, stop complainin, pay up like honest men." 



"BEAP YE ONE-ANOTHER'5 BURDENS." 

Gal. VI : 2. 

"d EAR ye one-another's burdens," 
LJ So fulfill the law of love : 
Let the arms of thy compassion 

Lift the struggling soul above ; 
Raise the fallen, help the needy. 

Bear them by thy manly strength, 
Lift them gently, help them kindly. 
Thy reward shall come at length. 

" Bear ye one-another's burdens," 

Human souls have griefs to bear, 
None there are who have no sorrow, 

Let us for each other care ; 
Weak and erring, poor and needy, 

Struggling in the slough of sin ; 
Let us do as did the Master, 

Freely take the erring in. 



' ' BEAR YE ONE- A NO THER'S B URDENS. " 31 

"Bear ye one-another's burdens," 

Wipe the tears from sorrow's eye ; 
Many hearts are sad and bleeding ; 

Seek their rescue ere they die ; 
Do not tarry, life is fleeting, 

Jesus whispers now to thee — 
" What ye do to these, my brethren, 

Even so, ye do to me." 

" Bear ye one-another's burdens," 

Life is but a passing breath ; 
Soon will days of earnest toiling. 

End in silent night of death ; 
Do not wait for great endeavor. 

Little acts of mercy shown, 
Help to bear another's burden — 

Serves to lighten all thine own. 

"Bear ye one-another's burdens," 

So fulfill the law of love ; 
Every little deed of kindness, 

Jesus treasures it above ; 
Let this be thy daily mission. 

Lifting up the trodden-down. 
Tears ye wipe from saddened faces. 

Will be gems to deck thy crown. 



32 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE OLD TOWN CLOCK. 

rOR fifty years, or more, gone by, 
The old clock in the tower, 
Has tolled the time to live and die ; 
The minute and the hour. 

By day, by night, from year to year. 
Its hands ne'er seemed to tire ; 

Its bell would greet the listening ear, 
And varied thoughts inspire. 

The busy toiler, day by day. 

Would dig and pound and delve, 

And then so strangely haste away. 
Because the clock struck twelve. 

Then, after one short hour's respite, 
Its rest and pleasure gone, 

Would check his craving appetite, 
Because the clock struck one. 

Resuming then his hard employ. 
He pounds and digs and picks, 

When suddenly he leaps for joy, 
Because the clock strikes six. 

What strange, mysterious, magic spell. 
Should hold inexorable sway. 

Or lodge within the weird old bell, 
'Tis hard, indeed, to say. 

Perhaps, for aught that we can say, 
It gains its queer renown, 

Because it claims to be a belle. 
The leading belle in town. 



THE OLD TOWN CLOCK. 33 

At all events, one thing we prove, 

'Tmay well excite our awe, 
The old bell has its seat a^c^i? 

E'en Justice, and of law. 

It cares not for the court's decree, 

For neither Judge nor jury, 
It strikes in spite of lawyer's fee, 

And laughs at legal fury. 

Oft in the silent watch of night, 

The old bell in the spire. 
Rings out as if in dread affright. 

The startling cry of fire ! 

It seems to say, "Awake ! awake ! 

Haste to the rescue, fly ! 
The maddening flames in fiery hate. 

Light up the lurid sky." 

This is the old bell's saddest moan. 

When ends life's transient breath, 
It speaks in deep sepulchral tone, 

Its requiem of death. 

Back in the days of deadly strife. 

In clang and din of war ; 
When treason clutched the nation's life. 

Steeped in human gore. 

The old bell rang its solemn wail. 

While freedom held her breath ; 
When cannon's roar shook hill and dale, 

And armies clenched in death. 

When victory flashed her pen of steel, 

And wrote in words of light. 
The old bell rang in merry peal, 

The triumph of the right. 



34 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

It never rang so glad a tone, 

As on that April day, 
When Appomattox glory shone, 

And chased the night away. 

Ring loud, ring long, the old bell said. 
Ring out, o'er land and sea ; 

Let peace her starry banners spread, 
The Nation now is free ! 

And thus the old bell's magic tongue, , 

Despite its weight of years ; 
With ringing voice and iron lung. 

Brings either smiles or tears — 

Strike on, old clock ! cease not to tell 

The brevity of time ; 
Strike on, till God's eternal bell. 

Shall ring its ceaseless chime. 



WOT'S MEN A GOIM TO DO? 

? C MORNIN I started to the celler, fer to clean the vittel shelf, 
^ And there was John, settin on a box, talking to hisself ; 
He didn't heer me, so I stopt to listen a minute or two. 
Wot I only heerd him say wos this : " Wot's men a goin to do?" 
I didn't know jis what he meant, but he had the wildest stare. 
So I sez : My ! John, what'n earth er yer doin there ?" 
But he never looked up, he kept right on, a lookin down to his 

shoe. 
And sayin, over and over agin — "Wot's men a goin to do?" 
He seemed to be losin his inteleck — 'twas mor'n I could bear, 
So I sez, right soft : "Don't worry yer branes, yer know yer've 

none to spare ;" 
Sez he : " Abi, jis tell me this — wot's things a comin to ? 



WOT' S MEN A COIN TO DO? 35 

If the wimmin git to votin wot's the men a goin to do?" 

Sez he : " Women '11 hav their way, an things will go to rooin, 

And men will hav to stay at home to cook and do the stewin." 

"Abi," sez he, an he almost cried — " Wot's men a goin to do, 

If the wimmen do the votin ; they'll gobbel the offis, too. 

Sez he : " I've bin a readin ' The Sperit of the Times ; ' 

It sez the sun is coolin, and the moon is full of sines. 

The world is goin backerds, anerkey's all about ; 

The wimmin, they is crowdin in, an men is crowded out, 

An' that's jis why the times is hard, an nothing 'tall to do, 

The wimmin's gittin everything, an I beleeve it's true ; 

Why, 'twas only yesterday, I seen a blacksmith shop, 

An' ez I was a huntin a job, I jis 'eluded I would stop ; 

I stept inside, an then sez I, ' hev you a vacancy, boss ?' 

An' wot do yer think, there was a woman shooin a kicken hoss. 

Well ! thinks I, hez it cum to this, hev wimmin got here, too ? 

Sez I to the boss, 'jis lookee here, wot's men a goin to do ?' " 

I seen my John was gettin high, I was 'fraid he was losin his 

mind ; 
Sq I sez, " mi ! John," an I sed it soft, so gentle and so kind : 
" Don't worry about the wimmin, fer every blessed cent 
They earn helps pay the bill, fer wittles, clothes and rent." 
Sez I, an I sed it sweetly : " mi deer ! you needn't feer. 
If the wimmin earn the money, there'll not be much for beer, 
An that'll be a savin tordz buyin meet and bread," 
He jis looked up an smiled, fer once, so humbel like, and sed : 
" Abi, wot gits me most is this — I can't jis quite see through, 
If the wimmin go out workin, wot's the men a goin to do ? 
It looks ez if 'twer comin, and the men, I'm reely 'fraid. 
Will have to take in washin an act as chambermaid." 
I sez again, sez I : "mi deer ! jis keep in hart an sole ; 
If that time ever comes around, we'll share with you the gole ; 
Be brave, an keep yer sperits up, let this yer buzzem swell — 
If men git sick fer want of work, we'll nurse 'em through the 

spell." 



36 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 



MY CREED. 

AMID the confusion of doctrines and creeds, 
And the din of sectarian contention, 
To distinguish the wheat from the tares and the weeds, 
Demands our closest attention. 

In spite of my training I cannot avoid. 

Some sort of religious profession, 
'Tis an internal yearning, a longing employed 

In uttering the soul's confession. 

What am I ? Let me see — what sect is my choice ? 

With which shall I seek for a union ? 
Ah, this ! for the best will I Hft up my voice. 

With her shall be my communion. 

I believe in a ritual, solemn and grand, 

A worship, not Paraphanalian ; 
A service of love, with benevolent hand, 

I guess I'm Episcopalian. 

I believe in the doctrine of settled decrees, 

Provided the proof is empyrian. 
In elders and deacons and churchly degrees, 

I wonder if I'm Presbyterian. 

I believe in the virtue of water applied. 

In the beautiful form of immersion ; 
Provided none other is wanted beside, 

I'm a Baptist, I guess, by assertion. 

I believe in the Light of the Spirit within, 

To teach me to honor my Maker, 
The plain honest garb, and the shunning of sin, 

I wonder if I'm not a Quaker ? 



MV CREED. 37 

I believe in the truths the Wesleys taught, 

Opposed to the faith of the Formalist, 
A religion of life to the multitudes brought, 

Really, I think I'm a Methodist. 

I believe in the Pope's infallible sway. 

In papal decrees and rhetoric. 
Provided my consgience shall lead me that way, 

I guess I'm Roman Catholic. 

And now, having traversed all creeds in my search, 

To tell what I am is a mystery — 
My faith don't adhere to the walls of a church, 

It partakes of a nobler consistory. 

I believe in the truths of the grand old book. 

The words of Divine Inspiration ; 
To this, as the guide of my life will I look, 

And to Christ, as my expiation. 

I believe in the duty of living to love, 

Uplifting humanity's station ; 
My faith, by my works, unmistakably prove. 

True faith, as the ground of Salvation. 

There's naught in the name of the Church, or the Creed, 

Full oft these are very confusing ; 
'Tis all in the Christ, humanity's need, 

This, is the Church of my choosing. 



38 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



A "LOVE-rEAST" LONG AGO. 

Now Nancy, put your knittin by, and lay your glasses down, 
The snow is driftin high to-night, and covers all the ground ; 
'Tis nice to have a blazin hearth, and hear the wild winds blow, 
Somehow, it takes my memory back, to a "love-feast," long ago. 

'Tis fifty years ago, I think, just after we were wed, 
'Twas on a stormy day like this, I mind, 'twas on a sled ; 
We started for the meetin house near Uncle Benny's mill ; 
Old Father Bowls was preacher then, I seem to hear him still. 

'Twas quarterly meetin day, you know, and spite the driven snow, 
The people came for miles around, they loved each other so ; 
They wasn't like these modern folks, on beds of roses born, 
And only went to meeting when there didn't be a storm. 

The sermon I shall ne'er forget, his words were awful plain. 
The text was in the third of John — " Ye must be born again " — 
We felt as if the judgment day was just about at hand, 
And Gabriel's awful trumpet blast was soundin through the land. 

The sinners trembled in their seats, and many tried to pray — 
Nancy, do you think we have such preaching in this day ? 
But what I want to talk 'bout most, it stirs my feeling so. 
Is 'bout the " love-feast " held that day, so many years ago. 

Old Father Bowls arose to speak, the tears streamed down his 

eyes. 
His trust was in the living God, he pressed toward the prize ; 
"Fight on," he said, "be brave and true, use well the Spirit's 

sword. 
And victory shall come at last, by trustin in the Lord." 

I can't forgit the hymn they sung, it made the valley ring. 
We had no fancy music box to help the people sing ; 



A "LOVE-FEAST" LONG AGO. 39 

Them days we used to go to church to worship, sing and pray, 
Like Christians in the 'Postles' time, in good old-fashioned way. 

'Twas after singing of the hymn, and prayer had been said, 
When brother Zeke and Benny Jones took water and the bread ; 
And gave to each a bit and sup, to saint and sinner, same. 
And Father Bowls invited all to speak in Jesus' name. 

Exhorter Smith was first to speak, he said, " for many years. 
He'd travelled in the good old way, through many toils and fears ; 
But now, he'd got old Satan down, and meant to keep him so. 
Until he reached the Pearly Gate, and then he'd let him go." 

Good sister Jane was next to rise, she'd reached three score and 

ten, 
She gave a good old-fashioned shout, and many said, "amen ! " 
She said, "she soon would cross the flood, and reach the shinin 

shore. 
And jine the loved ones over there, where parting is no more." 

Just then, Exhorter Smith struck up, that dear old-fashioned tune, 
" We'll cross the river of Jordan," ( ah ! he crossed it very soon;) 
And such a time I never saw, 'twas like a heaven below, 
To hear them sisters weepin, and the brethering shoutin so. 

Next, brother Brown stood up to speak, he said, " 'twas good in- 
deed. 
To be a follower of the Lord, the Lord supplied his need ; 
No foot of land did he possess, his pocket book was dry. 
But he was rich, for he had laid his treasure up on high." 

Then brother Zeke got up to talk, he said " it was a cross, 
To rise and speak a word or so, but sin was all a loss. 
He knowed it, for in younger days, he kept a whiskey mill. 
And anything as bad as that, was almost sure to kill." 

Now, Susie Brown, she tried to speak, I couldn't hear a word. 
And though I listened all the time, I thought she whispered, 
" Lord," 



40 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

And this was all that I could ketch ; she was a timid soul : 
But all who knowed dear Susie Brown, said she was in the fold. 

Now, Father Bowls struck up a hymn, and my ! how they did 

sing, 
'Twould skeer these nice new-fashioned folks, their heads would 

ake and ring ; 
'Deed Nancy, I have never heard, since them long by-gone days, 
Sich singin as them people did, sich true and hearty praise. 

Next, Diotrephes Jones got up ; he always cut a swell- 
That day he got so mity high, he lost his plumb and fell- 
It served him right, for he was sure, each time the folks would 

meet. 
To make a show, and try to be, the foremost of the heap. 

But soon things got to rights agin, when sister Huldy rose, 
And told what Jesus done for her, how sweet his mercy flows ; 
She talked about amazin love, that saved a worm like her ; 
And then a mity shout went up, that made the rafters stir. 

Old Father Bowls just clapped his hands, an shouted Glory ! Glory ! 
It must have shook the gates of hell, when Huldy told her story ; 
I feel the mity power yet. Oh, glory ! hallelujah ! 
It was as if a lightenin flash, had burned its way right through ye— 

"When I set out for glory," then, "I left the world behind," 
Was started by Exhorter Smith, and everybody jined ; 
There was a great rejoicin, for the Lord himself was there, 
And saint, and even sinner felt, that God could answer prayer — 

Now Nancy, I expect your tired, I've made my story long- 
But nearly all them sainted folks, have joined the ransomed throng ; 
There's many things I have forgot, my memory's failin so ; 
But Nancy, I can ne'er forget, that " love-feast" long ago. 



ON FIFTEENTH BIR TH-DA Y OF DA UGHTER. 41 

ON ririEENTH BIRTH-DAY Or DAUGHTER. 

I'M JUST FIFTEEN TO-DAY. 

" I'M just fifteen to-day, mamma," 
' Did you know it ? 

Going on sixteen to-day, papa, 

Do I show it ? 
Hurrah ! I'm fifteen years to-day — 
No wonder I feel so blithe and gay, 
The sun shines with a brighter ray, 
And even Claudy* wants to play, 
Hurrah ! I'm fifteen years to-day. 

Yes papa, I'm just fifteen to-day, 

Its ftmny. 
My babyhood has passed away 

So sunny. 
Mamma, I'm most as big as you, 
We both can wear each other's shoe. 
And things you do, I too, can do. 
Except, I can't just bake or stew — 
I'm glad I'm fifteen — aren't you ? 

I've been a good while climbing up. 

Yes indeed ! 
With many a slip 'twixt lip and cup, — 

As we read. 
But now I'm on the fifteenth step, 
- And hope to get up higher yet, 
, And never cease to be your pet. 

No odds how old or big I get, — 
Three cheers ! I'm fifteen years "you bet." 

*The pet puss. 



42 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

You thought you'd give me fifteen bumps, 

You missed it. 
But you forgot the cruel thumps, 

You wished it. 
When I came down this bright June morn, 
I gave you each a kiss so warm, 
And though June roses have their thorn 
I guess I'd none when I was born. 
Hurrah ! I'm fifteen — blow the horn ! 

Oh yes, mamma, I'm just fifteen 

You know. 
I feel as happy as a Queen, 

That's so ! 
Will Claudy feel as sweet and spry. 
When he is fifteen, same as I ? 
Will he wag his tail, and wink his eye, 
And look as cute and act as spry. 
When he is sweet fifteen — Oh my ! 

When I get big— say twenty-one. 
Oh dear, that's far away ! 

Won't we have lots of joy and fun ? 
And smiles around us play ? 

I'll make the sweet piano ring — 

I'll make the boiling kettle sing — 

I'll help mamma, in everything ; 

And she shall rest, and I will bring 

My heart's sincerest offering. 



THE OLD BARNARD STREET SCHOOL. 43 



THE OLD BARNARD STREET SCHOOL 



Dedicated to ROBERT T. CORNWELL, Esq., President of West 
Chester School Board. 



WHAT ! sell that dear old building Bob, 
And let it go to nought ? 
Why that's the nursery of rnind, 

The cradle of my thought. 
And now, forsooth, because it's old, 

And gray with honored age, 
The dear old building must be sold, 
To satisfy your rage. 

Is that the sum of your regard. 

For wealth of hoary years ? 
I'm sure you'd think it very hard 

If, when the gray appears. 
To have a stoic auctioneer, 

With voice and gesture bold. 
Cry out "What's bid?" without a tear. 

For crime of being old. 

Oh ! Bob, the dear old building spare ; 

For years its bending form 
Has stood amid the lightning's glare. 

And braved the wintry storm. 
It wears the same dear smiling face, 

It did when we were boys, 
And through its wrinkled form we trace 

That same majestic poise. 



44 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Still on its furrowed stair there falls, 

The footsteps of the past, 
And voices echo through its halls, 

'Mid shadows strangely cast. 
Arrayed upon each vacant seat, 

I see a spectral form ; 
I hear the rustling of their feet, 

As in life's early morn. 

From morn till night, each passing day, 

The hum of studious toil, 
Still holds its undisputed sway. 

To stir the mental soil. 
All through its hallow'd precincts there, 

The charm of childhood years. 
Seems lingering in the very air ; 

Seems ringing in my ears. 

As glancing down life's sunny slope, 

Into the old school door ; 
'Mid groups of vanished forms I grope. 

And faces see no more — 
Where are they ? So familiar yet, 

Our teachers, where are they ? 
Can we their smiles or frowns forget ? 

Our memory answers, nay ! 

There's " Pappy" Beans, whose treacherous ears 

Could catch the faintest noise ; 
Whose rod, in spite of all our tears. 

Played havoc with the boys. 
Within the bustling mental hive. 

The law, was his decree ; 
No spitball factory could thrive, 

Except by heavy fee. 

There's Davis, with his stately mien. 
And Hawkins' trembling air ; 



THE OLD BARNARD STREET SCHOOL. 45 

And Culver, like a sunny beam, 

Whose smile was everywhere ; 
There's Meader, stern, serene, sedate. 

Whose guns were pointed well, 
Who stormed the mental "ship of State," 

With mental shot and shell. 

There's Hannah Taylor's gentle skill, 

And Whitford's helping hand ; 
Miss Cox, who helped us up the hill. 

Miss Lamborn's magic wand. 
And others, faded out of mind. 

Whose noble, patient aim 
Led us the shining path to find, 

To honor and to fame — 

Ah, Bob ! in spite of all I've said, 

You drop no loving tear, 
Upon the dear departed dead, 

Upon its solemn bier. 
You advertise its burial day, 

With evident delight ; 
And coldly ask our help to lay, 

The poor thing out of sight. 

How can you Bob, be so unkind ? 

For mercenary gain, 
To doom this temple of the mind, 

This cradle of the brain ? 
Nay ! rather let it stand for Aye, 

Don't say it's growing old, 
Enshrine it ! For it cannot die, 

Yea ! cover it with gold. 



46 . THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 



SANrORD CULVER/^ 

SCHOOLMATES, he is dead ! his form no more 
Shall pass the portals of the school house door : 
Death ; a foe with whom 'tis folly to contend, 
Hath robbed us of our teacher, counsellor and friend. 
Schoolmates, close your books, put by your busy slates. 
Let nought disturb the silence, which his absence makes : 
His desk is vacant, empty his honored chair, 
A solemn silence broods mysteriously there, 
A solemn hush usurps the school's familiar hum. 
And e'en the old clock ticks as a muffled drum ; 
The call bell mutely stands upon the teacher's desk. 
His dexterous pen now strangely lies at rest; 
The old blackboard so sad and somber faced. 
Still demonstrates the problem, his hand had traced. 
The walls, the desks, the books, yea, all things blend 
To grieve and mourn the absence of a friend — 
Ah, what is life? 'tis a vapory fleeting breath ; 
Tell me schoolmates, can ye solve the Algebra of death i 
Is it plus or minus ? tell me if ye can. 
The value of its signs, its Theorems, its plan. 
Its unknown quantities, equations, roots and rules ? 
Ah ! here's a problem too abstruse for schools. 
Philosophy, science, reason, all are vain. 
To solve the problem, or its mode explain ; 
There's but one Book that makes it clear to me, 
The Books of Books is the explanatory key ; 
Here is the answer to those who yearn to seek — 
Death is not death, 'tis simply sleep. 



*This tribute is respectfully inscribed to the memory of my old teacher, re- 
cently deceased, who for twelve years was the honored Principal of the public 
schools of this borough. 



SANFORD CULVER. 47 

The sleep of rest, until the dawning light 

Shall chase away the miasmatic night. 

All honor then, to his untarnished name : 

A model teacher of the noblest aim — 

He took our plastic minds, in their crude estate, 

With patient skill, he made the crooked straight. 

Brought order out of chaos, gave thought its aim, 

Staked out the road to honor, purity and fame : 

It seems but yesterday, so swift the moments pass 

Since he uttered words of counsel to his listening class. 

Their unsolved problems, their vexatious toil, 

Their irate grammar, like a stubborn soil. 

Were rocks and crags, and briars sharp and keen, 

Which, by his magic touch, vanished as a dream — 

Thus as a father, true, sympathetic, kind, 

His gentle skill gave lustre to the mind. 

Eased our burdens, toiled for head and heart, 

And so a teacher of the highest type and art — 

Though oft our wayward pranks, despite his rule, 

Would vex the order of his well trained school ; 

And boyish tricks that spurned his moral nod. 

Would heed the moral suasion of the rod. 

Still withal, our hearts were his by ties 

As strong as steel, eternal as the skies — 

And now since we behold his face no more, 

We feel his worth as ne'er we did before— 

Schoolmates, tears will start, we vainly seek relief 

From the bitter poignancy of insatiate grief — 

But, he's not dead, nay ! schoolmates, nay ! 

His well earned fame is proof against decay ; 

Yet still, 'tis sad to breathe that word farewell ! 

'Tis like the solemn tolling of a funeral bell — 

Ah, dear schoolmates, why give way to tears ? 

Though gone from sight, his age counts not by years. 

His work immortal, incapable of blight. 

Preserves and keeps him ever in our sight — 

We see the impress of his hands and feet, 

Within the busy mart ; the crowded street — 



48 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

The Pulpit, the Press, and Legislative fame. 

Disclose the genius of his active brain ; 

His pupils bear the torch he lighted, far and wide. 

They wear the laurels of a nation's pride, 

And thus is carved his monumental stone, 

That noblest epitaph of all— well done ! 

So then, where'eer our lot be cast at home or far, 

The name of Culver, shall be our Polar Star, 

Whose magnet holds the needle of the soul. 

By which we steer, toward life's diviner goal. 

Be brave then schoolmates, such life can have no end. 

We'll meet again, our teacher, counsellor and friend. 



THE SONG or THE OLD CHURCH BELL 

" P\^^^' dong," this is my song, 
•->' In summer and winter I waft it along ; 
The wintry tempest my message shall bear, 
I ride on the breath of the summer's soft air ; 
Ever I utter my musical prayer, 
"Ding, dong," this is my song. 

" Ding, dong," this is my song. 
Hear it ye bustling, jostling throng ; 
Pause for a while in your searching for gold- 
Wealth is deceptive and covered with mould, 
My song is of riches that never wax old, 
" Ding, dong," this is my song. 

" Ding, dong," this is my song, 
Gladly I sing it, earnest and long ; 
Sweetly Pll whisper, in accents of bliss. 
Of a life that is higher and purer than this. 
Of the one only way, where none go amiss, 
" Ding, dong," this is my song. 



' ' NONE O THER NAME. ' ' 49 

"Ding, dong," this is my song, 
Listen, ye toilers, hear it, ye strong ; 
Work ! for the harvest is ready and ripe ; 
The day is far spent, on cometh the night, 
Be zealous for truth, for God and the right, 
" Ding, dong," this is my song. 

" Ding, dong," this is my song. 

Ye who've been burdened and wearied so long ; 

My song is of rest to the weary and sad, 

'Tis music that maketh the sorrowing glad; 

'Tis peace to the troubled, in heaviness clad, 

" Ding, dong," this is my song. 

" Ding, dong," this is my song. 
The moments are fleeting, the days hurry on. 
My song is of joy, of pardon, and love, 
Of a home in the mansions of glory above. 
Where Jesus awaits you, his mercy to prove, 
" Ding, dong," this is my song. 



"NONE OTHEP NAME." 

ACTS IV : 12. 

NONE other Name," "None other Name ! " 
'Tis Christ alone, can save — 
A rope of sand, a refuge vain, 
A baseless hope, a hopeless aim, 
Is all //^a/ soul can hope to claim. 
That has no Christ to crave. 

" None other Name," "None other Name ! " 

Christ, is Lord alone : 

He from the Courts of Glory came ; 



50 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Endured the grief, despised the shame, 
Unawed by death, unmoved by pain, — 
To Save — Redeem — Atone. 

" None other Name," " None other Name ! " 

Christ — the only plea ; 

His blood alone can meet the claim, 

To wash away my guilt, my shame ; 

All else is hopeless, dead and vain, 

'Tis Christ alone, for me. 

t 

" None other Name," " None other Name ! " 

Christ, is all, in all. 

My hope, my life, my strength, my aim. 

My health, my riches, honor, fame. 

My only refuge, is His Name. 

On this, I cannot fall. 

" None other Name," " None other Name ! " 
Can bring salvation nigh, 
Undone and lost, I must remain, 
Eternal woe, eternal shame ! — 
Oh Christ ! thy mercy is my claim ; 
Without it, I must die. 

" None other Name," " None other Name ! " 

How sweet the thought to me. 

My Sovereign Lord, thy peaceful reign 

Be ever fixed in me. 

Let naught of guilt in me remain ; 

Consume it by the Spirit's flame — 

My life be hid with thee. 



WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT? 51 



WATCHMAN, WHAT Or THE NIGHT? 

WATCHMAN, what of the night, is the dawning nigh ? 
Is aught of hope or cheer in the darkened sky ? 
Seest thou not e'en a ghmmer, near or far, 
That heralds the rising of the morning star ? 
Long the dismal gloom of the doleful night 
Hath shut the eye of day and obscured the light. 
Meanwhile, the Prince of Darkness marches on, 
Treads down the good, and enthrones the wrong. 
Purity, Innocence, sweet Childhood, Age and Youth, 
Peace, Righteousness, Virtue, Chastity and Truth — 
All, all, seem his to wither at his breath. 

Watchman, the night seems dark, and damp with dews of death. 
What means it, tell me, this strange and stifling spell, 
Like fumes ascending from the pit of hell ? 
This strange unrest, this growing discontent, 
Like pent volcanic fires, seeking angry vent ; 
This stealthy scheming, oppression and distrust ; 
This greed of gold ; this avarice and lust ; 
This grinding of the poor ; this glut of shame ; 
This insatiate thirst for pelf of worldly fame ; 
This craze for sensuous pleasure, base and low ; 
This frivolous fashion, pride and empty show ; 
This violated trust, dishonest word and plan ; 
Man inhuman to his fellow man ; 
This shocking profanation of the Holy Name, 
That taints the soul, and paints the cheek with shame ; 
This wide-spread desecration of God's own day. 
That trains the heart for dissipated play. 
" Watchman, what of the night? " 'tis very dark. 
Seest thou no gleam of hope, not e'en a spark ? 
That twinkles in the firmament of gloom, 
A cheering token, that morning cometh soon ? 
Hark ! the rush of armies, and the drum's quick beat ; 



52 ■ THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

See ! the gathering hosts of battle and the shotted fleet, 

The tramp of maddened men, with torch and flame, 

Athirst for martyrs' blood, to crush the name. 

That pure, dear name, the highest over all, 

Before whom devils crouch and fear, and fall — 

"Watchman what of the night," how long, how long? 

Shall truth and right lie prostrate 'neath the wrong ? 

Doth God not care to rectify the blight ? 

Hath He not strength to break the hideous night ? 

Doth he not care for human tears and woe. 

And say, "thus far ; no farther shalt thou go ? " 

" Hark ! " saith the watchman — "through the deepening gloom 

I hear the coming footstep of impending doom. 

The distant thunders roll, the waters roar, 

The mighty waves, in fury, lash the shore. 

The zig-zag lightnings, athwart the heavens fly, 

Like fiery chariots through the enshrouded sky." 

" See ! " saith the watchman, " lo here, lo there, 

The sword of judgment cleaves the sultry air, 

Lays waste the cities of the plain by fire and flood. 

By fierce cyclonic rage, by death and blood, 

By wreck and waste, by smiting drought and heat ; 

By earthquake crash, by pelting storms that beat " — 

Watchman, tell me, what of the darksome night ? 

How shall I read its startling signs aright ? 

" Hark ! " saith he, " 'Tis the judgment sword, 

And the rumbling chariot of the coming of the Lord." 



'' IN GO{L)D WE TRUST." 53 



"IN GO(L)D WE TRUST."* 

AMONG the nations far and near, 
On this terrestrial ball, 
There is but one our hearts revere, 

But one, excelling all. 
We boast a nation grand and great. 

We hoist her banners high ; 
We fear no foreign foe nor State 

Beneath the arching sky. 
But ah, we blush, confess we must, 
In gold we trust. 

Let Briton's flag kiss every breeze, 

And let her boast of no defects ; 
A nation mistress of the seas, 

A land on which the sun ne'er sets. 
We boast a nation grander still, 

Whose glory all the nations sing ; 
Whose ruler is the people's will, 

And every man a sovereign king. 
But ah, our banners trail in dust. 
In gold we trust. 

Germania's fame may glow and shine. 
And brightly blaze her classic lore ; 

Her pride may be her castled Rhine, 

Her strength, her thunderbolts of war. 

Columbia breathes a nobler boast ; 



* Has the writer erred in this arrangement of the beautiful legend stamped 
upon our national coins? 



54 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

Of mighty rivers, grassy plains, 
Exhaustless mines from coast to coast, 

And busy mills and lightning trains. 
But ah, the nation's darling lust ! 
In gold we trust. 

Is France by all her sons adored ? 

A land, the gayest of them all, 
Whose pomp and pageant of the sword 

Made nations tremble to their fall ? 
But what amounts a flag unfurled. 

If peoples 'neath it do not rise ? 
We place our strong arms 'neath the world, 

To lift it upward toward the skies, 
And yet, we blush, to own our lust. 
In gold we trust. 

Let Russia boast her vast domains, 

Her iron heel on necks of men, 
Her blue Danube, her snowy plains. 

Her sword, more potent than her pen. 
Columbia boasts a grander scope. 

Two score and four empires in one ; 
A flag, aglow with radiant hope. 

Beneath which truth goes marching on. 
But ah, we hear the taunting thrust, 
" In gold we trust." 

Italia boasts her sunny skies. 

Her sculptured art, her magic song ; 
Her annaled glories none despise ; 

Her wealth and fame to all belong — 
The grandeur of Vesuvius' flame. 

Whose mighty roar shakes earth and sky. 
Old Pompeii's throbbing life again — 

Old Rome ! guard well, with sleepless eye 
Thy massive temples in the dust- 
In gfold we trust ! 



'' IN GO{L)D WE trust:' 55 

Old Egypt's boast, no age forbids, 

Her templed ruins the ages praise ; 
Her Nile, her Sphinx, her Pyramids, 

Invite the nations' wondering gaze. 
Old Egypt lifts her hoary head 

Amid her dusty couch of death, 
And spite the centuries' heavy tread 

Her pulse yet throbs with living breath. 
But ah, our boast, is glittering dust — 
In gold we trust ! 

Let Switzerland blow her Alpine horn. 

From summit of her highest crag, 
Until fair freedom's radiant morn 

Shall kiss with peace each waving flag. 
But while our starry flag shall wave, 

The flag that we love most and best, 
Shall freiemen dig the nation's grave ? 

And freedom fail, her crucial test ? 
Nay ! let us shun that fatal lust — 
" In gold we trust." 

Let Spain enjoy her laurels won. 

And deck anew Columbia's brow. 
The fairest land beneath the sun 

Extends to her its honored bow — 
'Twas hers to draw the golden bar 

That closed a continent's emerald door, 
And point to men the guiding star 

That halted on this western shore. 
But ah, we blush with shame, our lust. 
In gold we trust ! 

Columbia, thou land of light ! 

Where freedom's sheltering temples rise, 
Whose circling walls are strength and might, 

Upreaching, even to the skies, 



56 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Thy mission is to all oppressed 

To come and breathe pure freedom's air, 

That here, by truth and virtue blest. 

Fond hope shall have its answered prayer. 

Be this our motto— true and just— 
" In God we trust." 



THE OLD TAMILY PUMP.* 

THE quaint old well, to my childhood dear, 
Has found its sad, relentless end ; 
Fain would I drop a silent tear. 

As for a dear, departed friend. 
Its merry song of " Come and drink !" 

Shall never greet my ear again, 
And thus another shining link 

Has dropped from childhood's golden chain. 

Dear old well ! I love thee yet. 

Thy memory still is dear to me ; 
Whatever else I may forget, 

I cannot cease to think of thee, 
For oft in childhood's sunny hours. 

When weary, heated, parched and dry. 
Thy streams, like dew on summer flowers. 

Bought glow of health to cheek and eye. 

Thy gushing flow, so full of cheer. 

Seemed like the melody of spring ; 
'Twas music to my childish ear— 
• It made the family kettle sing ; 



* Some of the most pleasing reminiscences of the author's childhood are as- 
sociated with the old well, recently filled up, that stood on south Church street, 
near Barnard. 



THE OLD FAMIL Y PUMP. 57 

The tidy glow, the cleanly air, 

The healthful hue of family glee ; 
The stream that swept away our care, 

All seemed to have their source in thee. 

Ah, yes ! how oft my boyish feet, 

Have sought thy cool, refreshing shade. 
When, in the sultry summer's heat, 

I thirsted for thy cooling aid. 
Thy crystal draught, its silvery spray, 

Would sparkle like a monarch's crown, 
Or dazzle like the dewdrop's ray. 

Or gush like liquid diamonds down. 

And now, though years have passed away. 

The roses from my cheeks have flown ; 
My auburn locks are turning gray. 

My bounding steps have firmer grown. 
I cherish still the dear old well, 

I see it yet, as I did then ; 
Its memory wreathes so strange a spell, 

I fancy I'm a boy again. 

Again, in fancy's mood I sit 

Upon the rugged, foot-worn curb. 
Strange memories o'er my vision flit, 

Which sterner duties scarce disturb. 
I join again the merry song. 

And hear again the joyous cheer ; 
I mingle with a laughing throng. 

Whose footsteps tread no longer here. 

Dear old well ! 'tis sad to think. 

That I shall see thy form no more ; 
No more thy cooling waters drink, 

As in the dear old days of yore. 



58 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Ah ! all things change, grow old and seer, 
And yet these scenes of long ago, 

Like fairy music, sweet and clear, 
Grow sweeter as we older grow. 

Quaint old well, to my childhood dear. 

No sculptured stone may mark thy rest ; 
Fain would I drop a silent tear 

For childhood hours thou has blest. 
Though none may deign to speak of thee — 

Thy cherished form no more be seen — 
Thy memory lives, at least with me. 

Entwined in fadeless evergreen. 



MY MOTHER'S TACE. 

OFT in the busy whirl of life's relentless beat, 
When weary nature seeks a longing rest, 
I pause to gaze upon a face, divinely sweet. 

That decks the gallery of my throbbing breast. 

When earth-born shadows o'er my spirit roll, 
And love's responsive chord I vainly trace, 

A glance at this is sunshine to my soul, — 
The picture of my mother's saintly face. 

There it hangs ! a picture pure as truth. 
Brightening as the busy years go by, 

Fresh with the lineaments of a fadeless youth ; 
Though all things perish, this shall never die. 

That tender face still speaks without ; within, 
A mother's love, a mother's wooing skill ; 



WHEN MOTHER DIED. 59 

And now, when age comes on and eyes grow dim, 
I see that charming face more plainly still. 

My mother's face ! no nobler gift I prize ; 

Radiant and calm in its mirrored trust ; 
When other faces fade, and weary nature dies, 

That saintly face survives my crumbling dust. 



WHEN MOTHER DIED. 

rIVE lonesome weary years, have passed away. 
Since Mother died. 
'Twas a sunny day in Spring. Alas ! 'twas May — 
Nature was melodious with her sweetest song, 
But my poor heart, lay prostrate, all day long ; 
With unutterable grief, too deep for me — too strong — 
When Mother died. 

No day so sad, in all the passing years. 

When Mother died. 
E'en the very flowers seemed bedewed with tears — 
Clad in mourning, seemed the spring time sky. 
The balmy air, murmured a solemn sigh. 
When Mother whispered faintly, her last — "good-bye ! " 

When Mother died. 

Fierce, the hot billow that madly o'er me swept. 

When Mother died. 
O'er which I staggered 'neath the surge, and wept. 
And though the load of years lay heavy on her breast, 
And mingled toil and sorrow, made her long for rest — 
'Twas hard to say — " Good-bye " to her, I loved the best. 

When Mother died. 



6o THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Death seemed darker, when he broke into her room, 

When Mother died— 
The grave seemed deeper, as I looked into its gloom- 
But I stood and wept upon its cold and chilly verge, 
I trembled, 'neath the monster's crushing scourge : 
The descending casket, murmured a solemn dirge 

When Mother died. 

But, while I stood, and gazed into the deep — 

When Mother died, 
I thought of her, who nevermore would weep — 
I thought of her, whose spirit was at rest — 
She seemed to speak — " Meet me — with the blest " — 
I said — " I will " — God knoweth what is best. 

Though Mother died. 



"I WILL GIVE YOU REST." 

MATT. XI : 28. 

JESUS, let thy tender love, 
My faltering footsteps keep ; 
Be a canopy above — 
A rock, beneath my feet. 
When amid life's busy toil. 
By care, or grief, or pain oppressed. 
Let me hear thy gentle voice — 
" Come ! I will give you rest." 

Speak, oh Lord, thyself make known, 
In every passing hour ; 
Lead me, leave me not alone. 
Be thou my sheltering tower. 



IN THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 6i 

When storms arise, and tempests rage, 
Or fears disturb my anxious breast, 
Jesus bid me hear thy voice, — 
" Come, I will give you rest." 

Gently take my trembling hand. 
Choose every path I tread ; 
In thy strength alone I stand, 
Oh Thou ! my living Head. 
Through all my toilsome journey here. 
My path illumed, my soul refreshed, 
I shall not fear, for thou hast said — 
" Come ! I will give you rest." 

Jesus, Master, by thy side, 

Would I forever stay, 

If I may with thee abide. 

My feet shall never stray ; 

By night, by day, in life or death, 

In all things, I'm supremely blest, 

Jesus my unfailing joy 

And my eternal rest. 



IN THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 

IN the shadow of the Cross, 
There is rest, sweet rest ; 
Earthly joys I count but loss, 

Yet I am blest, I am blest ; 
Peacefully the moments roll. 
Naught disturbs my quiet soul, 
Sweet the shadows calm control. 
Sweet shadow of the Cross. 



62 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

In the shadow of the Cross, 

There is joy, sweet joy ; 
Earthly gold is fading dross, 

Mixed with gross alloy. 
All my talents Lord, are thine ! 
All my strength and all my time. 
Brightly all things glow and shine, 
In the shadow of the Cross. 

In the shadow of the Cross, 

There is hope, sweet hope ; 

What though storms my pathway cross, 
Not in gloom I grope. 

Faith and hope can never fail, 

Fiery darts cannot prevail, 

Satan's arts can not avail. 

In the shadow of the Cross. 

In the shadow of the Cross, 

There is life, sweet life ; 
Earthly tinsel, glare and gloss, 

Earthly struggles, care and strife. 
All shall die and pass away. 
But I ne'er shall go astray ; 
Life is one effulgent day, 
In the shadow of the Cross. 



CHRISTMAS A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME. 63 



CHRISTMAS A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME. 

A DREAM. 

y I "WAS Christmas Eve, I fell asleep, despite a Christmas drum, 
■ And lo ! I dreamed of a Christmas day a hundred years to come. 
I saw a stately mansion rise, before my wondering eye. 
Of marvellous symmetry and form, some twenty stories high ; 
It had no stairs, but up and down, on what, I could not see. 
They came and went as quick as thought, and just as silently. 
As now, so then, the drifting snow was falling thick and fast, 
And just as cold, and fierce, and bleak, shrieked out the wintry blast. 
Within, 'mid floods of dazzling light upon the velvet floor, 
I saw a merry, laughing group I ne'er had seen before. 
Reclining in a cosy chair, an old man, blithe and gay, 
Said " Children, let us merry be, to-day is Christmas day ; 
" We'll catch the mammoth turkey hen, up in her roost so high, 
" And have a luscious Christmas feast, with yellow pumpkin pie ; 
" And John may go, if through the drift of snow he now can pass, 
" And bring some golden pippins, from the garden under glass. 
" We'll start the parlor fountain, with its jets of silvery spray, 
"And though 'tis snowy Christmas, it shall be as flowery May. 
" Although 'tis near the hour of noon, there's yet sufficient time, 
" We'll send for aunts and uncles, by the new Pneumatic line." 
And the old man, blithe and gay, puts his finger on a knob. 
And there came a little message, like a momentary throb. 
" We'll be with you in a moment, but before we start to go, 
" We will tarry in Chicago, for a friend from Mexico. 
" And we'll wait for Cousin Sue, ere we start upon the trip, 
" She just left Rio Janerio, in an airy-flying ship. 
"And we'll all come up together, reaching you we think in time, 
" On the safe and rapid transit, of the new Pneumatic line." 
So, before the turkey hen had come out the oven door, 
They were there from sunny Rio, San Francisco, Baltimore — 



64 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

For you need but take your seat, and in but a moment's time, 
You are where you want to be by this new Pneumatic line. 
So they all sat down to feast, on that merry Christmas day, 
Age and childhood blend together, in a gleeful Christmas play — 
On went my dream, sweet strains of music came faintly to my ear ; 
I stood entranced, was mute with awe, the sweet notes far, 

now near, 
Now high, now low, unearthly most, o'erwhelming to my soul, 
Now softer than Eolian harp, now like the thunder's roll. 
From whence the enchanting music came, my dream did not reveal, 
I only heard the music roll, and o'er my spirit steal ; 
I saw no human hand, nor touch, nor organ grand and tall. 
To me 'twas like a Christmas chant, which angel lips let fall, 
" Glory to God in the highest, peace, good-will to men," 
Was the echoing chorus of voices that floated o'er forest and fen — 
Again I saw in my dream, the old man blithe and gay, 
Gathered his happy household near, he had somewhat to say : 
" Be seated now," said he, " our Great Grandfather Clive, 
" Will talk to you a little while, as when he was alive ; 
" He'll tell you of the old, old ways, of ancient Christmas time, 
" He lived a hundred years ago, in eighteen eighty-nine." 
Now in my dream I saw the group begin to smile and laugh. 
As the kind old man, so blithe and gay, brought out the Phono- 
graph. 
With reverent mien, he placed it gn the Persian marble stand. 
And gently touched the strange device, with nervous, trembling 

hand. 
A silence still as death itself awaits the mystic sign. 
To hear our Great Grandfather Clive, who lived in eighty-nine. 
Slowly the awaking marvel moves, and this is what he said — 
"We seem to have a deal of rain, 'twill raise the price of bread ; 
" The wheat was bad, the corn is poor, potatoes in the ground 
" Were spoiled by heavy rains and floods, and very few are sound. 
" But pasture seems quite good, I think 'twill help keep down ex- 
pense, 
" My butter I shall try to sell at least for fifty cents. 
" Sometimes I mix in politics, at least to some extent, 
" I helped elect Ben. Harrison to be our President. 



'' OLD FATHER TIMEr 65 

" About the women's right to vote, I don't know what to say, 
" I'm pretty sure they'll bring it round, they always have their way. 
" A merry Christmas to you all, this eighteen eighty-nine," 
And so ovir Great Grandfather Clive spoke of the olden time. 
And now the old man, blithe and gay, despite our listening ears, 
Puts by the curious Phonograph for another hundred years ; 
And so the visions of my dream may not be overdone. 
About that merry Christmas day, a hundred years to come. 



"OLD rATHER TIME." 

I'VE read in storied prose and rhyme. 
Of a strange old man — old "Father Time." 
With snowy locks, and flowing beard. 
With low bent form, wrinkled and wierd 
A glittering scythe, his chosen sign, 
As if 'twere always reaping time- 
Always reaping time. 

One day as I strolled, 'twas high noon tide. 
Suddenly, the old man stood by my side. 
Not a word spake he, but the glance of his eye, 
Was strangely cold — I heaved a sigh — 
He stroked my head in a playful way, 
And lo ! my raven locks turned gray — 
My locks turned gray. 

I watched him, till with halting step ; 
He paused, where a smiling infant slept — 
A father's hope ; a mother's joy ; 
The household pet, the darling boy — 
The wierd old man, as if in play. 
Touched the babe, and it withered away, 
Iti withered away. 



66 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

I looked again, a loving bride 
Stood blushing, at the altarside. 
She dreamed of years of wedded bliss. 
As she calmly placed her hand in his ; 
Just then, the old man coldly bowed, 
And the bridal robe, became a shroud. 
Became a shroud. 

'Twas the solemn hour of midnight gloom, 
A merchant sat in his counting room, 
Dollars and cents, more ! more ! more ! 
The prayer he uttered o'er and o'er — 
The wierd old man, blew his breath on the air. 
And the merchant — Echo answers where ? 
Answers where. 

Alone I sat, in pensive thought, 
The old man came again, unsought, 
In his hand, he held an hour glass ; 
"See!" said he, " how the moments pass." 
With that he touched my sparkling eye. 
And sight grew dim, I knew not why, — 
I knew not why. 

Old man, one boon I crave from thee. 
That thou wilt keep thy hands off me. 
Thy smiles but hide a bitter truth, 
Thy purpose is to steal my youth ; 
The old man waved adieu just then. 
And smiling said, " I'll see thee again." 
" I'll see thee again." 



MATILDY GOES TO MEETIN. 67 



AWriLDY GOES TO MEETIN. 

ONE Sunday mornin years ago, along in May or June, 
The birds was singin, it seemed to me, a most bewitchin 

chune. 
The Hlacs, my ! how sweet they smelled, and the apple blossoms, 

too ; 
And the bees was hummin gaily round, 'mong flowers wet with 

dew. 
When Lizer come to the garden gate and says to me, says she, 
" Matildy, git your bonnet on and go to meetin with me." 
I studied a bit, and then, says I, " Law sakes ! I've nuthin to wear ; 
Them meetin folks all look so nice, they'd hardly want me there, 
"My yaller dress is outer style, my green mantiller, too ; 
My bonnit's faded sorter brown, — 'twas pirty when 'twas new. 
And to go to meetin these times, unless yer dressed in style, 
They'll look at yer as if they thought the meetin-house 'ud spile." 
But, howsumever, I thought I'd wear just what I had, and go. 
For laws ! thinks I, is meetin's made to wear good clothes fer 

show? 
If that's what takes the people there, what's we poor folks to do ? 
And spose we go, I jest expect they'll put us in some back pew — 
Well, the bell had jest stopped ringin, an we hardly teched the 

floor. 
When the sextant sort o' smiled and said, "Take that pew near 

the door." 
I looked at Lizer and she at me, we both felt kinder vexed. 
For I was a-gettin deef and dum, and wouldn't heer the text. 
We took the seat ; the organ played some high distractin chune. 
But what it was, we couldn't tell, a bit mor'n the man in the moon ; 
Then the preacher rose, give out his tex ; I whispered, "Lizer 

Jane, 
Jest tell me where the tex is found, I couldn't hear it plain." 



68 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Says she, " I didn't hear a word, we're set so fur away, 

We might as well a'most stayed home, fer all we'll hear to-day." 

But anyhow the preacher read ; he had his sermon writ ; 

Says I to Lizer, by and by, " Law sakes ! I wish he'd quit." 

At last he did, and then he read a great long list of news ; 

When he was through Elizer said, " Tildy, that beats the Jews." 

Says I, " I didn't hear a thing. What was he sayin then ? " 

Says she, " He said, to-morrow night, from six to half-past ten. 

They'd have an 'apern sociable,' let everybody come ; 

They were goin to have a rite good time, a little harmless fun — 

On Tuesday night a Dr. Brown would lectur' ( one of his best) 

On ' Love an Courtship,' how it was done out in the growin West. 

Wednesday night, the usual time for conference and prayer. 

The preacher said, ' Let one and all be certain to be there ; 

Instead of the prayer meetin, there'll be a juberlee of song ; 

A first-class orkester'l be there, two hundred woices strong ; 

A regler band of music, with fiddles, horns and floots. 

Will jine the mighty korus, if the weather only suits ; 

To git in, is fifty cents, — but a triflin amount ; 

It's to buy a big pipe organ ; the melojun's no account.' " 

" Then for Thursday night he said, 'Stead of havin Bible class, 

The young folk's Readin Circle, have a treat for lad and lass. 

They will give a grand cantater — Cinderella's fairy tale — 

And judgin by the posters, there'll be no sich thing as fale.' " — 

" For Friday night he told 'em the lyceum would meet ; 

And besides the speakin pieces there'd be sumthin good to eat " — 

" Law sakes ! " says I, " Elizer, what denomination's this ? " 

"Why," says she, "I think they call it. Church of Undiluted 

Blissy — 
He didn't mention Saturday night, nuthin 'peared to be on hand ; 
I s'pose they thought they'd jest about as much as they could 

stand ; 
I thought so, too ; in fact I said, " They's a pleggy lively set 
If they get through with all of that, and any's a-livin yet." 
So, when the meetin broke that day, we started for the door. 
And we run agin jest lots of folks we hadn't seen afore ; 
They jammed and blocked the aisle up so, we couldn't git out or in. 



THE OLD CHURCH IN THE VALE. 69 

And there wasn't one that shook our hand, an' said, "Do come 

agin." 
But I couldn't help a-laffin when I heerd what Tildy said, 
Fer she talked so awful loud they stared— my face turned scarlet 

red! 
Says she, "I've heerd Aunt Betsy talk of a sekt, the queerest yit. 
Who preach and pray and sing fer fun ; I guess this must be it." — 
Well ! we've tramped them solemn hills to-day to find a house of 

prayer, 
Fer to git bilt up in livin faith, for this world's wear and tear. 
" I've learned one thing," she said rite out, says she, " Elizer Jane, 
I'll never jine this meetin-house, unle.ss I git insane." 



THE OLD CHURCH IN THE VALE. 

COULD I retrace my steps again. 
And backward roll the years ; 
And stand within the old log church, 

Sweet memory reveres ; 
How would my throbbing heart rejoice. 

To tread the lovely dale. 
And see once more the old log church. 
That nestled in the vale. 

The old log church, so quaint and dear. 

So plain, and yet so neat. 
Where loving hands, long cold in death, 

So kindly led my feet. 
How oft upon the rugged seat, 

Close to the altar rail, 
I sat within the dear log church', 

The old church in the vale. 



70 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

So long ago, and yet it seems, 

But yesterday agone ; 
Since gathering here, familiar ones, 

Grouped on the grassy lawn, 
About the quaint old meeting door. 

Through which the summer's gale 
Like angel whispers sighed within 

The old church, in the vale. 

Since then, sweet childhood's golden curls, 

Have vanished into gray, 
And manhood's sturdy stalwart years. 

Like dreams have fled away — 
I've seen the grand cathedral's dome, 

I've grasped its marbled rail, 
But dearer far, is the old log church, 

The old church in the vale. 

Bury me in its mossy yard. 

Where the purple violets bloom ; 
Where the wild rose climbing the crumbling wall 

May scent my humble tomb. 
In the holy calm of the dear old spot, 

Where spring time blossoms trail 
In the fragrant shade of the old log church. 

That nestles in the vale. 



'' STRAIT IS THE GATEr 71 



"STRAIT IS THE GmT." 

Matt, vii : 14. 

A RICH man came to the narrow gate, 
With bags of gold, of ponderous weight 
'Twas all he had of life time toil, 
Gathered and hoarded from the soil : 
His glittering dust he closer drew, 
And struggled hard to drag it through, 
But found the gate too strait for him, 
He could not take his dollars in. 

A wordly wise man reached the gate. 
With brilliant mind and pompous state ; 
Proud of his knowledge, wit, and looks ; 
And bending 'neath his weight of books — 
The angel searched the musty pack, 
Strapped closely to the stranger's back ; 
Alas ! said he, as he withdrew, 
"Thou can'st not drag such. trifles through." 

A man of pleasure, came at length. 
Bringing a load that taxed his strength ; 
Empty bubbles, and bags of air. 
And Jack O'Lanterns bright and fair ; 
Pausing awhile at the narrow gate, 
He sought to enter — 'twas too strait — 
And sinking down in deep despair, 
He found, he could not enter there. 

A weary traveller came in sight. 

With staff in hand, and garments white ; 



72 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

Nothing had he, save a little " white stone,"* 
Bearing a name, he knew alone. 
The golden door swung open wide — 
" Come in !" was heard on every side, 
"Thou art a pilgrim," angels sang, 
"Washed in the blood of the spotless Lamb." 

How needless then, to hoard and toil, 

And gather treasures on perishing soil, 

Strait is the gate, and narrow the way. 

That leadeth to life's eternal day ; 

Riches and wisdom, and pleasures are dross ; 

Nothing avails save the blood of the cross. 

And the name that is written within the white stone ; 

By these thou shalt enter, — by these alone. 



*Rev. ii : 17. 



NATURE'S POEM. 

THE Eternal One, on his lofty throne ; 
With flaming pen, wrote Nature's poem. 
And spread its glowing lines abroad, 
O'er all the universe of God. 
Long ages, ere were listening men, 
Jehovah swayed the poet's pen ; 
Or ere an earthly harp was strung, 
The Eternal Poet's hymns were sung ; 
Nor has the music lost its tone. 
Its rythm leaps from zone to zone ; 
From sky to sky, from sun to sun, 
Where stars their blazing journeys run. 
Far out upon the desert air. 
Its music rings as sweetly there ; 



NATURE'S POEM. ^z 

And where no listening ear is found, 

As sweetly swells the pleasing sound ; 

Above, beneath, beyond and near, 

Its charms invite the raptured ear ; 

No jarring discord mars its chime, 

Eternal harmonies combine 

With charming sweetness, all their own. 

The music of Jehovah's throne — 

Unequalled in its lofty thought, 

With wisdom, beauty, glory fraught, 

Eternal diadem of truth. 

Resplendent with a fadeless youth ; 

Untouched by age, undimmed by time. 

In which omnific splendors shine, 

Omnific grace, omniscient skill, 

The outshining of Jehovah's will. 

With blended symmetry and grace, 

His name on Nature's page we trace ; 

Where e'er we turn our wondering gaze. 

We meet this strange poetic blaze. 

Until in reverential awe. 

We bow to God's poetic law. 

Emblazoned on the vaulting sky. 

Beyond the sweep of Seraph's eye, 

As well where streaming light ne'er comes, 

As in the track of rolling suns. 

There gleams his own poetic fire. 

The music of his chosen choir — 

Majestic is the measured rhyme, 

That flows along each burning line. 

And everywhere a strange control. 

Pervades the mystic poet's soul ; 

Till Seraphim and Cherubim, 

Unite to sing the choral hymn, 

And over mountain peak and dell. 

The bounding echoes leap and swell. 

And thronging hosts in strange amaze. 

Accord the Eternal Poet's praise ; 



74 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

While streaming 'neath tiie arching dome, 

They read entranced, fair nature's poem. 

And trace its' Hnes of dazzling flame, 

On every page of God's domain — 

Its stanzas flung athwart the sky. 

Attract the glance of angel's eye. 

Who standing on the shining mount. 

In vain, the mystic stanzas count ; 

And strange emotions throng and thrill, 

Bewildered at the poet's skill — 

Where e'er with wondering eyes we look, 

Upon the page of Nature's book ; 

" Deep speaks to deep," their echoes ring ; 

" The morning stars together sing," 

The sons of God, the sons of men. 

Are swayed by God's poetic pen ; 

Yea, all things join in glad acclaim, 

To laud the Eternal Poet's name — 

The thunder of Niagara's roar, 

As down, its classic waters pour, 

Forever blends the roaring dream, 

With murmurs of the rippling stream ; 

The cyclone's furious rush of death. 

Rhymes with the gentle zephyr's breath ; 

The Wintry blast, and drifting snow, 

The balmy Spring, the Summer's glow. 

The Autumn's mellow harvest time, 

All blend in sweet poetic chime ; 

The mountains towering to the sky, 

Where vales in verdant beauty lie. 

And flowery glade and rocky glen. 

Bespeak the same poetic pen ; 

The vivid lightning's blinding flash, 

Its withering stroke, the thunder's crash, 

The storm-cloud's dark portentious glare, 

All breathe the same poetic air ; 

The rumbling earth, the rending rock. 

The tremor of the earthquake shock ; 



GETTYSBURG. 75 

The comet's blaze, the planet's sweep, 

The stars that gem the azure deep ; 

The burning sun, fair nature's lamp, 

All bear the same poetic stamp ; 

The rain-drop and the ocean chime, 

And mingle into sparkling rhyme ; 

And rain-drops nod to billow's roll, 

As breath of one poetic soul ; 

And roses kiss the daisy's cheek. 

And holly-hock and pansies meet. 

And all polite obeisance make, 

To morning-glories when they wake ; 

And trailing shrub and ivy-vine, 

In fragrance 'round each other twine, 

Yea, all things chant in rhyming glee. 

One universal melody ; 

While men and angels read and own 

With reverence, nature's grandest poem ; 

And all above, beneath, abroad, 

Declare the poet author, — God. 



GETTYSBURG.* 

To arms ! to arms ! the shrill war trump resounds. 
O'er hill and valley, o'er mountain peak it bounds. 
Till every ear has caught the thrilling strain. 
And every heart is fanned into a flame — 
To arms ! to arms ! the hostile foe, elate. 
With maddened fury, treads the " Keystone " State, 
The insulted soil heaves indignant sighs, 
And calls upon her sturdy sons to rise — 
They hear, and lo ! from village, town and glen. 



* Written in 1S63. 



76 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Come rushing hosts, of maddened stalwart men, 

The sturdy yeoman leaves his reaper stand, 

To seize with nervous, yet determined hand, 

The pointed bayonet or the rusty sword 

To hurl from the old " Keystone " the Rebel Horde, 

The busy laborer drops his tools of toil, 

And rushes to the front for love of Freedom's soil ; 

The skilled mechanic forsakes his trusty trade. 

And buckles on the unrelenting blade, 

And e'en the Pulpit, with its sacred name. 

Has caught the glow of Patriotic flame, 

And hastening to the ranks, the man of holy things. 

The knapsack o'er his shoulder, calmly flings. 

And so they come, from valley, hill and plain, 

A mighty host, in Freedom's sacred name, 

One mind, one heart, one impulse, moves them all, 

One hope, one destiny, one country — is the call ! 

A dauntless courage' doth each soul inspire. 

To stand unflinching, as a wall of fire 

Between their loved homes and the rebel foe — 

They vow a tide of human blood shall flow. 

Ere Freedom's homes are leveled to the dust. 

Or Freedom's form receives its fatal thrust — 

Hark ! the boom of cannon, heralds an ominous roar. 

The dreaded hour is come, the blood-red field of war. 

Is set in order, for the dreadful strife, 

For the Nation's death or the Nation's life — 

Now, roar after roar, comes bounding o'er the hills : 

Mingled hope and fear, each patriot bosom fills 

The smoke of battle now shoots its columns high, 

Until they tower, to the lurid sky, 

The summer's sun affrighted, skulks away. 

And a bloody veil drops o'er the face of day — 

One day of carnage past, but Freedom's host still firm. 

Awaits the dawning day with visage stern — 

At len'gth the morning dawns. A booming gun 

Proclaims the rising ofa blood-red sun — 

Soon the embattled hosts again in fierce array. 



GETTYSBURG. 77 

Madly rush into the deadly fray, 

Until like autumn leaves, all o'er the field, 

Are strewn the ghastly victims, death has sealed — 

Madly the conflict rages, and the cannon's roar, 

And sturdy warriors wade through human gore. 

The hosts of Freedom, stand like flinty rock 

And bid defiance to the fiery shock — 

Thus wears the day, and night again prevails — 

Still victory trembles in uncertain scales — 

The battle roar is still. Death sits upon his throne. 

And makes night hideous with his withering groan. 

The weary night speeds on, the day dawn tints the east, 

Insatiate death invokes another feast — 

But see ! high up the rocky crag 

Still proudly floats, fair Freedom's tattered flag 

By shot and shell, and fiery tempest torn. 

Still it survives the shock of battle storm ; 

Proudly it waves, while 'neath its ample shade. 

Rally iron-hearted foemen, unflinching, undismayed ; 

In breathless awe they await the final shock. 

But each resolves to stand like flinty rock — 

Victory or death, flames on every brow. 

As each to each is pledged the solemn vow, 

To do or die, in Freedom's sacred name. 

Despite the fury of the battle's flame — 

Ah ! soon their courage meets the dire test. 

For thundering cannon sweep the rugged crest. 

The traitor hordes now gather, fierce and strong. 

And treason shouts exultant, loud and long — 

They come ! they come ! now rings through Freedom^s camp. 

The earth sounds hollow beneath their heavy tramp — 

But Freedom's cannon breathe their fiery breath. 

And forth they belch, the red-hot bolts of death. 

On ! on ! they come like fiends impelled by hate 

Till Freedom trembles in the scales of fate — 

And fiercer yet, are hurled the shafts of war, 

And louder still, sweeps on the battle's roar. 

On, rush the furious foe, they scale the slope. 



78 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

All buoyant now, with bright assuring hope, 

They wildly shout, their solid masses tread. 

O'er heaps of mangled, and the ghastly dead. 

On ! on ! they come, a wall of fiery steel ; 

Their yells of fury, louder than cannon's peal. 

Fierce and furious, confident in might, 

The rebel bayonets gleam in the lurid light — 

But ah ! deluded bravery, mistaken, wastes its breath, 

For Freedom's drums are beating treason's march of death ; 

Hold ! cries our val'rous Chief, have faith in God and right, 

The foe may thunder, but Freedom wins the fight ; 

Reserve the o'erwhelming shock, till up the rocky steep, 

Dark treason plants her footstep, and her cannon sweep 

The dauntless foe, o'erwhelmed with furious hate 

Rushes madly, to receive its sullen fate — 

Hark ! a solitary gun now shakes the crumbling crest, 

'Tis Freedom's signal thunder — the final test, 

To prove to millions the strength and might of right. 

Truth's certain victory, in Freedom's holy fight : 

Shall Freedom perish? No ! loud and shrill. 

Now thunders all along that blazing hill. 

Three hundred cannon blend in awful roar. 

And Treason welters in her ignoble gore, 

Her shattered ranks dismayed by dire defeat. 

Lie mangled, torn and crushed, at Freedom's feet. 

Treason dies ! beneath the Union gun 

The Nation lives ! her victory is won — 

Ring out your peals ! let mighty surging song. 

Resound o'er hill and dale from Freedom's throng. 

Let freedom shout, the Lord his favor gives, 

The hideous wrong is dead, the Nation lives. \ 

The Lord Jehovah reigns by his own might, 

He giveth victory to the cause of human right — 

Forever, let fair Freedom's banner shine 

From Gettysburg's red field, to end of time! 



WE LOVE THE DEAR OLD STARRY FLAG. 



79 



WE LOVE THE DEAR OLD STARRY ELAG. 

WE love the dear old starry flag, 
The Banner of the free, 
From vale to peak, from peak to crag, 

It shelters you and me. 
We rally 'neath its glowing stars. 

That light the Union sky, 

Its radiant stripes, its battle scars. 

Are Freedom's battle cry. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! we shout, we sing 

Of thee, Flag of the free ; 
We'll make fair Freedom's temple ring, 

With shouts of liberty. 
Forever let it proudly wave, 

North, South, East and West, 
The flag, the glory of the brave. 

The flag that we love best. 

The flag that we love best, oh Lord ! 

Protect its sheltering fold ! 
Its might, be stronger than the sword ; 

Its wealth, than finest gold. 
Let learning flourish 'neath its shade, 

Let wrongs their terrors cease. 
Let Truth and Right and Art and Trade, 

Preserve us one in peace. 

Shout, ye people ! shout its praise, 

Lift up your voice in song. 
Pride of our fathers' patriot days. 

To tis its stars belong. 



8o THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Halt ! halt ! ye foes ! The flag is law, 
It floats to crush the wrong. 

Beware ! Stand back in trembling awe, 
To you its stripes belong. 

We love the dear old starry flag. 

Where e'er its stars shall shine, 
From lofty pinnacle, or crag. 

There freedom rears its shrine, 
There hearts beat stronger for the view, 

Man breathes a freer air, 
Faith has its promise made anew. 

And Hope, its answered prayer. 



MOTHER or THE REGIMENT.* 

MOTHER of the Regiment ! the aroma of thy name. 
Is like the spring-time blossoms, after winter's icy reign ; 
For thou wast " Mercy's Angel," sent to cheer the boys in blue, 
Sent to bear a mother's blessing, all their weary marches through. 

Mother of the Regiment ! thou hast earned thy honored name. 
Out upon the weary march, and on the battle plain. 
Where'er a bleeding soldier, in his fevered anguish lay. 
There thy tender blessing, charmed his pain away. 

Mother of the Regiment ! we exalt thee evermore, 

Thou art a living, loving ray, unquenched by shock of war ; 



* Mrs. Mary St. John, residing in Philadelphia, was familiarly known during 
the war of the Rebellion as the "Mother" of the Ninety-seventh Regiment, P. V. 
These lines are especially dedicated to her because she deserves to be held in 
everlasting remembrance by every member of the Regiment. She is a part of 
her history. Who is there among the old veterans who does not lovingly recall 
her genial presence? During the whole term of distinguished service of the 



MO THER OF THE REGIMENT. 8i 

A tender breath, a sunny smile, a faith that would not lag ; 
A mother's earnest love for all, who loved their country's flag. 

Far back, in days of darkening gloom, in grim old sixty-one. 

When treason's blighting shadow, eclipsed the Union sun, 

And the twinkling stars of the dear old flag, went down in waves 

of blood, 
E'en then, thou didst not fear to tread, the flaming, fiery flood. 

Ne'er did a Spartan mother's love glow with intenser ray, 
Than when with brave heroic heart, on that November day. 
When mingling with the autumn's blast, was heard the clarion 

call. 
Thou gavest to thy country's need, thy home, thyself, thy all ! 

And when the battle's gory tide, swept over hill and dell, 
And many a noble soldier boy, torn by shot and shell. 
Lay gasping 'neath the icy touch, of death's relentless grip. 
With the holy name of " mother " trembling on his quivering lip. 

'Twas then, amid the sombre gloom, the dying boy in blue 
Breathed out his last fond message, and to comrades, his adieu ! 
And when the death-like shadows fell, there came a ray of bliss. 
When " Mercy's Angel," bending low, transferred a mother's kiss. 

And so, in camp, or field, or march, whate'er the danger near, 
Her loving voice and gentle hand, dispelled the rising tear ; 

old 97th, Mrs. St. John nobly personified a kind and affectionate mother. Wher- 
ever the regiment went, she went. She shared gladly in all its privations and 
suflFerings, for the sake of ministering to its comfort. F"rom the time of its 
marching away from " Camp Wayne," in West Chester, Pa., on the morning of 
November T6th, 1861, to the consummation of its glorious career, our " Mother 
of the Regiment " was a veritable Angel of Mercy. A fact that distinguished 
this now venerable lady is worthy of re-mention. Including herself there were 
eight members of this one family, all enlisted in the field service of their country ; 
the mother, father and two sons in the 97th, and the others in other regiments, 
besides one daughter, who died in the hospital service. 

The old lady is now about ninety years of age, and is the sole survivor of 
the eight. She alone stands, like a solitary oak, in the midst of a desolated 
forest. 



82 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Her deeds of sympathetic love, so true, so pure, so warm. 
Were like the shining of the sun, despite the pelting storm. 

Can we forget her magic touch ? Her words of kindly cheer 
Brought beaming hope from fainting hearts, and courage out of 

fear ; 
Brought smiles to faces wet with tears and joys to spirits riven. 
By words and deeds, that made us think of "Mother, Home and 

Heaven." 

Say, Comrades ! bring your fairest flowers, fragrant, fresh and 

sweet. 
And reverently strew them, around her tottering feet ; 
Weave garlands for her whitened locks, wreaths for her wrinkled 

brow, 
For lo ! she treads the crumbling verge, " She's Old and Feeble 

Now." 



THE OLD WASHINGTON HOTEL 



A SCRAP OF LOCAL HISTORY.^ 



A MOTLEY group in the old bar-room, 
Sat lounging by the glowing fire, 
While howling winds in the outer gloom, 

Raved and whirled in angry ire. 
The old sign creaked in the Autumn blast, 
Like a moaning spectre all night long, 
And whirling leaves swept madly past. 
Like a dismal dirge or a siren song. 



* In the year 1845, one bitter cold and stormy night, late in the Fall, a brilliant 
and accomplished professor of music, by the name of Keyser, engaged at Mr. 
Bolmar's academy, in this borough, dropped dead during a drunken debauch in 



THE OLD WASHINGTON HOTEL. 83 

The ribald jest, the boisterous jeer 

Of the noisy group, in the bar-room's glare, 
Rang in a chorus, wild and drear, 

Out upon the dismal Wintry air. 
Ever and anon, a staggering group. 

With blood-shot eye and bloated stare. 
Like a famished crew or a thirsty troop. 

Surged hard against the gin-stained bar. 
'Mid hideous oaths and besotted grin, 

They eye the red decanter's glow ; 
The ghastly hue of the fiery gin. 

The ruby poison's deadly flow. 
The familiar clang of the rattling glass, 

As one by one the goblets fill. 
And up to the parching lips they pass ; 

And the jingle of the bar-room's till 
Told of a thirst of quenchless flame, 

Whose rage no human skill could check, 
Nor hope to break the fiery chain 

That makes of man, a shapeless wreck. 
Still the low, coarse laugh goes on. 

The empty joke and the vile repast ; 
Till the bar-room clock strikes the hour of one. 

And the wild winds still go howling past — 
A stir is heard at the bar-room door, 

The creaking door swings open wide, 
And reeling o'er the sanded floor, 

A bloated form, with tottering stride, 
Hurries to the bar, with impatient bound. 

With quivering lip and fiery eye. 
With a pleading glance toward the gurgling sound, 

Of the fiery fluid, he longs to buy. 

the bar room of the Washington hotel, which then stood on the present site of 
the Meconkey mansion on High street, West Chester. The disheartened wife 
and three little children waited long into the night for his return; but alas! it 
was only to receive his bloated, lifeless body. The home was crushed, and the 
family broken up. The facts, as near as can be gathered, are portrayed in the 
above lines, a picture not overdrawn. 



THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

With a rabid clutch he seized the draught, 

And held the glass with a trembling grip, 
And quickly the ruby poison quaffed. 

Then smacked his quivering fevered lip — 
Reeling heavily and crazed vi^ith drink, 

And frenzied with a burning thirst. 
Right upon the verge of the pit's hot brink, 

Where serpents hiss and souls are cursed. 
He tumbles in a rickety chair, and sleeps, 

Despite the midnight revelry, 
While the howling tempest wildly sweeps. 

And shakes the wierd old hostelry. 
From base to roof the rattling panes, 

Echo the raging storm without, 
And firmer yet rum's deadly chains, 

Embrace its victim roundabout ; 
His labored breath, the heavy moan, 

The heaving chest, the twitching frame, 
The convulsive throb, the sigh, the groan, 

The foaming lip, the writhing pain, 
Betray the raging storm within ; 

Still on he sleeps, satanic bliss ! 
Lulled by the fumes of burning gin. 

Up from the bottomless abyss. 
The flashing fires of the burning, pit 

Already gleam in his twitching face, 
While swarming demons seem to flit, 

And leave behind, their slimy trace — 
The town clock strikes the hour of two, 

A solemn silence spreads its pall. 
The dark night still intenser grew. 

When lo ! a sudden heavy fall 
Resounds along the gloomy halls — 

Then all was silent as the tomb, 
A silence echoed by the very walls, 

More hideous than the midnight gloom ; 
And gazing down with bated breath, 

There, stretched upon the foot-worn floor, 



THE OLD WASHINGTON HOTEL. 85 

A human form lies, cold in death, 

Heedless of the outer tempest's roar ; 
Cold in death, motionless, still, 

Life's brittle thread, burned in twain 
By fires that devastate and kill 

With pitiless rage and quenchless flame — 
There in the bar-room's lurid glare, 

Wierd is the scene of that lonely hour, 
Yet borne upon that midnight air. 

Are silent sighs of anguished power — 
For out upon a lonely street, 

In shaded solitude and drear, 
Darkly the sombre shadows meet, 

Charged with a strange mysterious fear — 
In a lonely cottage 'neath whose shade. 

Is clustered close in tearful gloom, 
A little family group, dismayed. 

Half conscious of impending doom. 
A weeping wife, three little ones. 

Listening for a father's well-known step ; 
While ever and anon, 'mid sobs and groans, 

Goes up the cry : " He comes not yet." 
" Oh, dear father ! where is he ?" 

" Why is he so late to-night? " — 
The fierce winds mock so dismally — 

The clock strikes two ; a strange affright 
Seems lurking in the very air. 

And closer yet the tearful group 
Unite and breathe an aching prayer ; 

The scanty embers faint and droop. 
The light burns low, dark shadows creep 

Along the lonely cottage floor ; 
The little ones sob themselves to sleep — 

A startling knock is at the door, 
Its bounding echoes surge and flit, 

Drearily leaping from room to room, 
Like an unchained demon of the pit, 

f^ideous with the tread of doom— 



THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

With frantic strides the stricken group 

Rush to heed the midnight call ; 
While darker yet the shadows droop, 

Like the dark drapery of a horrid pall- 
See ! there before the opening door, 

A sullen figure mutely stands ; 
Loath to reveal the pangs he bore, 

Or to unload his woe-filled hands — 
His speechless gaze, his labored breath. 

Utter the words his lips refuse, 
A silence audible as death 

Breaks at once the shuddering news — 
" Yonder on the bar-room floor he lies, 

Your missing husband ; cold in death " — 
Tears filled the messenger's blood-shot eyes. 

Heavy his fluttering, laboring breath, — 
"What ! dead ! did you say ? can this be so ? 

Oh, it cannot be ! my husband dead ! 
Oh ! spare me this most crushing woe, 

My soul shrinks back with horrid dread, 
Crushed and torn, these billows roll 

In fiery fury, o'er my soul " — 
" Dead ! did you say ? Oh ! it must not be, 

See these little ones, helpless, lone. 
Shall they no more their father see ? " 

And she sank to the floor with a piercing groan. 
Bereft of reason, o'erwhelmed with grief, 

The torn heart bleeds 'neath the withering stroke, 
Too vast, too deep, to find relief ; 

'Tis vain deaf mercy's ear to invoke ; 
The pitiless pang, the unconscious swoon. 

The cry of the fatherless bitter and long, 
The desolate home a shapeless ruin. 

The human wreck, the crushing wrong, 
The broken ties, the groans and tears. 

The ghastly wreck of a father's form. 
Bereft of life, and honored years. 

Cold in death, to his loved ones borne. 



THE OLD WASHINGTON HOTEL. 87 

Slaughtered by the withering demon, rum, 

His requiem the wild winds blow. 
In darkness sinks his midday sun. 

Behind the horizon of woe — 
So hope and joy, and light of home, 

Of life, its highest, purest sum, 
Dies bleeding, broken and undone, 

Crushed by the monster demon, rum — 
Oh rum ! thou fiend, thy foetid breath. 

Lurks in the glow of the maddening bowl ; 
Thy foul and stifling stench of death 

Debauch the years and rots the soul. 
Where e'er thine accursed footsteps fall, 

There floods of bitterest anguish flow ; 
And demons gloat and griefs appall. 

In all the agony of woe. 
Oh rum ! thou fiend, thy hideous throne 

Is drenched in blood, submerged in tears. 
The orphan's cry, the widow's groan 

Seems music in thy heedless ears — 
Awake ! oh human souls awake ! 

Strike the insatiate monster down ; 
His fiery, withering scepter break, 

Pluck from his brow, his tear-stained crown. 
Strike down the monster ; strike to-day, 

The might of right, must break the spell ; 
Must end the demon's blighting sway, 

And sink him to his native hell. 



THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



MATILDY COMES TO TOWN. 

SAKES alive ! but the town has changed, since I was in't afore, 
Let's see ! why I hain't bin here since long afore the war ; 
I walked afoot across them hills, but I'm sure you couldn't guess 
Who was along, for I come that day to buy a weddin' dress ; 
But it didn't come off, I'll tell you why — they called him " noble 

Jack," 
He went away with the Light Brigade, dear me ! he never come 

back. 
An that's jis why I never wed, I can't forget him a bit, 
It's bin nigh fifty year ago, and I've got that old dress yit ; 
But as I was a goin' on to say, I come to town, to-day. 
To do some shoppin' and a lookin', while I may chance to stay. 
Them good old days so long ago, when I was here afore. 
You could buy a sight of perty things, with a fip penny bit or more, 
But laws ! to go a shoppin' now ; 'tis sich a dandy place. 
You can't get much, unless your purse's big as a pillar case. 
But anyhow, I say's to-day acomin' along the road, 
Lizer, we'll see the sites, if we don't go back with a load — 
Lavvs ! what's come across the town, 'taint like it used to was. 
It 'pears a little uppish like, at least to me it does ; 
Some folks they kinder look and smile, when they see me pass 

along, 
I spect's because my dress is plain, and I have my sunbonnet on. 
Lawzee ! I've not bin here but once, for nearly fifty year. 
And to have them smile at plain old folks, I say it's mazin' queer — 
Why Lizer Ann, jis' lookee here !— why yes, says she, it's sweet! — 
Says I, I mean them railroad tracts, a runnin' along the street. 
Oh ! she says, " I thought you meant that hat, with ostrich wing. 
It's perfectly lovely, isn't it ? 'twould tempt the wife of a King." 
" No !" says I, " I didn't ! and I sed it with a frown, 
I wouldn't swap my old sun-bonnet for all them hats in town ;" 



MATILDY COMES TO TOWN. 89 

"I mean, says I, them railroad tracts, they're too dangerser by far ; 
I've looked all this blessed afternoon, an' I haven't seen a car." 
She says to me, Matildy, I'm told they have to wait, 
Till they can git a Town Hall built out yander at Len-nape ; 
The cars'll be run by lightnin' streaks,— Lawzee ! says I, do say? 
Why what's the world a commin' to ? Kin they run cars that way ? 
Why Lizer Ann, yer crazy, child ! Who ever heerd the like ? 
You can't make streaks of lightenin' pull, their bizness is to strike, 
I don't know much, Elizer Ann, but I reely would as soon 
Fool with them forked lightenin' bolts, as jump down from the 

moon. 
I jest expect sum day to hear, of a whoppin lightenin' flash, 
Abreakin' loose, and bust them cars and railroads, all ter smash- 
But, we hain't got through a shoppin' yit an' time's a gittin' away— 
Lawzee, I hope them lightenin' cars won't show theirselves to- 
day — 
Goody gracious ! Lizer Ann, why what on airth is that ?* 
What's that little feller there, a squirtin' water at ? 
And there's them geese a standin' round, why, they don't mind 

- it a bit. 
But, a goose is a goose, ded or alive, they never was much for wit. 
Lizer Ann, just then says she, " Matildy, them's not alive, ^ 
They'se only figgers, sot up there to make the water drive. 
That are a public fountain," and she laughed and laughed agin, 
But she forgot, I'd come to years, when my eyes is gittin' dim. 
They'se got so many patent things, most everywhere I go, 
That unless you've bin to college, why how's a body to know?— 
"Lawzee ! Lizer, they'll kill me yit, afore I git back home,— 
What was that thing run inter me? I didn't hear it cum ! 
It shot rite past jist like a streak, first one way, then across, 
I spect it was a runaway, but I didn't see no boss ; 
The man hung on with all his might, hangin' on to the wheel, 
It skeert me so, and cum so quick, I hadn't time to squeel. 
Says I, " were that a lightenin car !" " Why, Tildy Jane !" says 
she. 



= The Everhart Street Fountain. 



90 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

That were a bicycle, and she laughed till she couldn't see — 
Lawzee ! says I, how's a body to know, what queer things they 

have got, 
Fer we've not tuk a paper since the days of Gineral Scott, 
I says to Lizer Ann, says I, " there's heap uv things to see. 
But there's too much lightenin around for plain old folks like me ; 
If I can jist git back alive, an I'll do it if I kin, 
My mind's made up, Elizer Ann, I'll not cum soon agin !" 



THE OLD BELL RINGEP.* 

C OLEMNLY, solemnly, toll the old bell, 
>^ That hangs in the old church tower ; 
Solemnly, solemnly, send out its knell, 

Mournfully as the death-hour. 
He is no more, who for long weary years, 

Hath guided thy sweet Sabbath chime ; 
His labor is o'er, and ended his fears. 

He's gone to the evergreen clime. 

Solemnly, solemnly, toll the old bell — 

He never will toll it again. 
To its musical chime he hath spoken farewell 

He had bidden adieu to his pain ; 
Safe on the plains of a happier clime. 

Beyond earth's sorrowing even. 
He listens to bells of a far sweeter chime — 

The beautiful bells of heaven. 



* The above was written as a tribute of respect to the memory of Jacob 
Southwood, deceased, who for nearly a quarter of a century had been the faithful 
bell ringer of the Episcopal Church, West Chester, Pa. 



LITTLE JOHNNY'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 91 

Solemnly, solemnly, toll the old bell, 

Oft it has called weary feet 
From palace and cot, from hillside and dell. 

To gather where worshippers meet. 
It gave its last call to its old, tried friend ; 

'Twas a call to come upward ! come higher ! 
To where the sweet notes of the glorified blend, 

With the harps of the angelic choir. 

Solemnly, solemnly, toll the old bell. 

As slowly the cortege goes by ; 
Let it sound the sad notes of the funeral knell. 

Let it heave the departed, a sigh ; 
Let it mournfully murmur a sorrowful wail, 

Let it utter its loss in a groan ; 
Let it waft a good-bye as the death-laden gale, 

Bears away the old man to his home. 



LITTLE JOHNNY'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 

DOES ou zink Triss Tinkle will tum here to-night ? 
Wiz his ittle yanedeers and snow-tovered sleigh ; 
If ou sees him, dear Mamma, I zink 'twould be yite, 

To div him a cheer, and ask himto tay, 
Tos ou knows how I wish he would bring me a ball, 

A trumpet 'at blows, and a ittle red dum ; 
A sled and a waggie, wiz horsies and all, 

And zen I would have jes a house full of fun. 

Ah, yes ! my dear Johnny, I think he will come, 

If you try to be mamma's dear, good little boy ; 

For boys that are naughty, Chris Kingle will shun. 
For them he has nothing — not even a toy — 



92 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

Zen, Mamma, I'll try to be dood as I tan ; 

Won't ou hang up my tockey ? de biggest I've dot— 
I wish I wor tockings as big as a man — 

For den I would have such an awful big lot ; 
Oh, I want lots of sings ; a doggy and dun. 

And a sword, and a hatchet, a saw and a hoe, 
A big box of tools, and tars zat will run, 

A top zat will spin, and a 'nagarie show, — 
I want tandy and sugar, and cakes and pie. 

Nuts and oranges, as much I tan tuff, 
A nice 'ittle bicycle so I tan fly, 

Oh, Mamma ! my tockings ain't half big 'nough — 

Why, Johnny ! my dear, what will Chris Kingle say, 
When he hears of your wants, almost without end ? 

I fear you will drive Santa Claus quite away. 

For boys that are selfish he's nothing to spend. 

Dear Mamma, do say to Triss Tinkle to-night, 
I wouldn't be telfish for all he has dot ; 

Tos I zink it is wrong, and it wouldn't be yite, 

And he might never turn here, jest like as not. 

But Mamma hung up Johnny's stockings that night, 

And tucked him away in his low trundle bed ; 
While the cold wintry stars twinkled calmly and bright, 

And sparkled like glittering diamond's o'erhead. 
The snow-mantled hills and valleys were still ; 

The murmuring brook, in its icy repose, 
Had ceased to disturb the old wheel at the mill, 

While Santa Claus hurried his team o'er the snows. 
E're the morning's chill fingers had painted the east. 

With the roseate hues of the Christmas morn, 
Two bright little eyes from slumber had ceased, 

And sparkled like dewdrops just after a storm — 

" Oh, Mamma ! Oh, Papa ! was Triss Tinkle here ? 
Did he tum down the chimbly while I was asleep ? 



THE CHURCH FAIR. 93 

Triss-mus dift ! Triss-mus dift ! rang out loud and clear, 
I caught ou zat time ! then a laugh and a leap. 

I see it ! I see it ! dis look ! yes, he turn ; 

My tockings are full, tuffed clean to de top ; 

Dis what I was wantin, a sword and a dum. 

And a heap of nice sings, what I never had dot." 

With drumming and blowing the live long day, 
With rumpus and racket, confusion and noise. 

With floors all bestrewn with his trinkets of play, 
Our Johnny was one of the happiest of boj'S — 

" Hurrah for Triss Tinkle ! I dess he loves me ! 

I wish I could yide in his yanedeer sleigh ; 
He's the bestest dood man zat I ever did see — 

I dess wish Triss Tinkle would turn every day." 



THE CHURCH TAIR. 

I. 

THERE ! I knowed it would be so, spite of all my word and 
prayer, 
They've resolved to jine together, for to hold a fancy fair : 
When I told them my objections, though my words were few an 

mild, 
They just turned to one another, and they looked so queer an 
smiled. 



Now, I've mingled with them sisters for a score of years or more, 
And there's none that has worked harder, but I wept my eyelids 

sore, 
When I saw them smile and giggle, in the solemn place of prayer, 
Just because I spoke an voted 'gin the holding of a fair. 



94 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

III. 
But they 'pinted their committees, and arranged the plaguey thing, 
Just to suit their crazy notions, for the money it would bring ; 
As they said, " They needed carpet, and new cushions in the pews, 
For the church was out of fashion ; nothing in it fit to use." 

IV. 

"And the choir wants an organ, and the church a chandeHer, 
And the pulpit must be altered, for it looked so odd an queer. 
They had tried to raise the money, by collections in the pew. 
But they couldn't git no dollars, and of pennies but a few." 

V. 

"Sermons didn't seem to reach 'em, but they loved to drink and 

eat. 
So, to save the dyin people, they must give them fleshly meat ; 
If their souls were worth the savin, they must have the sweetened 

cup. 
Gospel meat was too insipid, for to keep the meetin's up. 

VI. 

There was sisters Jane and Sary, and a score of others, too. 
Met together every evenin, for to put the matter through, 
They would move and reconsider, then resolve and move agin, 
Till it seemed as if the business never would be voted in. 

VII. 

Some thought the waiting maidens should be of the " upper ten," 
'Cause they said their charms would dazzle, an draw in the 

younger men. 
They must have a pond for fishin, with some tender little baits, 
Where the boys could ketch a trifle, and the girls could fish for 

mates. 

VIII. 

They must have a postal office, and a guessin stand they sayed. 
And Rebecca at the well, a dispensin lemonade ; 
They must vote a handsome dolly to the prettiest miss in town, 
And the spryest lookin bachelor gits the gaudy dressin gown. 



THE CHURCH FAIR. 95 

IX. 

The sweetest maiden gets the ring-, lodged within the massive cake, 
And for very Httle money you can learn your future fate. 
Little maidens, dressed like fairies, must go bobbin here and there, 
Sellin little buds and roses, for the girls and boys to wear. 

X. 

So they plan, invent and settle, for to help the thing along, 

Just as if the Lord had blundered, and had fixed the matter 

wrong ; 
Just as if the souls of people could be fed on such a hash, 
And the church was built a purpose for to git the people's cash. 

XI. 

Then they read it in the meetin, when the thing was comin off. 
And although it seemed irreverent, I jist gave a scornful cough ; 
For I wanted them to know it, even though the thing might win, 
I was down upon sich nonsence, so they need'nt count me in. 



So when everything was ready for the openin of the show. 

With their trinkets and their gewgaws — and I tell you 'twasn't 

slow — 
They were vases, sewing-baskets, needle work and rubber toys. 
Fancy hoods and gingham aprons — velvet slippers for the boys. 

XIII. 

There were fancy smellin bottles, collars, handkerchies and sich, 
Stacks and stacks of shinin nothin, which they said was very rich. 
There were heaps of little trifles, hardly worth a grain of dust. 
Stacks and stacks of empty bubbles, which they said would never 
bust. 

XIV. 

Then they had a lively raffle, for a lot of showy stuff. 

Which they said was for the winner, if he got but votes enough. 

All they had to do to git it, was to pay a little fee, 

As it went to help the meetin, there was not a better plea. 



96 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



So the thing was kept a movin, crowds went pourin in and out, 
Till the meetin folks and others, said 'twas grand without a doubt. 
They had bought their pockets empty, and had filled their stom- 

icks full, 
Till the sisters fairly shouted, they had made so good a pull. 



" Now," they said, we've got the money, not in vain our toil an 

search. 
We'll put in the latest fashions, we will have a stylish church. 
We will show these fossil fogies, churches can't be run on air, 
Churches fatten more on dollars, than they do on faith and prayer — 



I have been a faithful sister ever since my youthful days ; 
I have loved the courts of Zion ; I have prized her simple ways ; 
I have read my Bible over ; I have read it through in prayer ; 
But I've never seen a passage, that enjined a fancy fair. 



A RELIGION THAT WILL MOT yWIX. 

A RELIGION that will not mix with the drudgery of life. 
Is not the kind that winneth in the strife. 
A faith with up-rolled sleeve, unmindful of attire. 
That delves down deep, to lift the fallen from the mire. 
That's the religion for me. 

A religion that will not mix, with the toiling poor. 
Is not a welcome guest within my door. 
That faith that climbs the dark and rickety stair. 
And seeks to leave e'en a meager blessing there, 
. That's the faith for me. 



A RELIGION THA T WILL NO T MIX. 97 

A religion that will not mix with measures, weights, percent, 
Is not the sort that heaven kindly meant. 
A truthful word, a just and honest deal. 
Ways that are pure, professions that are real. 
That's the religion for me. 

A religion that will not mix with each day's round of toil. 
Is that which groweth not, for lack of soil — 
The fields are white to harvest, go work to-day, 
Sad hearts there are to heal, and tears to wipe away, 
That's the religion for me. 

A religion that will not mix with wrongs that burn, 
Is not the kind for which we sigh and yearn. 
The faith that seeks a nation's wounds to heal, 
Votes as it prays, and prays for humanity's weal, 
That's the faith for me. 

A religion that will not mix with but one day in seven, 
Is not the kind that leadeth into heaven. 
The faith that serveth God, each passing day. 
That cheers the home, and sheds a shining ray. 
That's the faith for me. 

Away with shams ! Oh, for honest truth. 
There's but one faith, endowed with fadeless youth. 
But one religion, divinely from above, 
A faith of works, of charity and love, 
That's the faith for me. 



777^ AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



HOW SUM MEN RAIN AT HOME. 

SUM time ago, I writ and showed how men rained in the land, 
To show how some men rain at home, I now take pen in hand ; 
I don't much like to be too plain a tellin family news. 
But John's away, down to the shore, so he can't refuse. 
Taint often I kin git away, so I says one day to John, 
" I'll take a day to see Ant Jane, but I'll take my knittin along." 
But jis as I expected, John grumbled, an sez he, 
" I speck I'll have to let yer go, but what'l become of me ? 
Who'll cook, an do the sweepin, an tend to Sary, too ? 
Yer'd better stay at home," sez he, " like wimmin orter do." 
I hardly knowed jis what to say, but I sez, " for forty year 
I've scrubbed an cleaned an cooked an sewed, 'till I'm nearly 

out of gear. 
And I haven't tuk a single day, in all that busy time, 
Since Sammy was a little tot, an now he's twenty-nine — 
Now this is wot I'm goin to tell, I speck yer'l think it queer. 
But it happened jist a week ago, an showed that men don't keer 
How much their wives may dredge an scrub, to keep things clean 

an neat. 
So they jest hev their wittles cooked, an git enough to eat. 
Well, as I wus goin to say, 'twas nearly noon that day. 
Word come, our next-door-naber's sick— come over right away ; 
I studied a bit, fer I knowed thet John would listen fer the din- 
ner bell. 
An if dinner wasn't reddy at twelve, he'd git a grumblin spell. 
But I went, an hurried back agin, and got the dinner on 
Jist by the clock, five minutes late, but yer orter' ve heard my John ! 
He went on like a loonatick, jerked the table cloth off 
'Till he spilled the vinegar over the pie an upset the chicken broth, 
So it run down on his striped pants, an spiled his Sunday vest. 
So he wasn't fit fer folks to see, till he got cleaned up an dressed, 
But I couldn't help a laffin, jis when he wus scoldin the most ; 
There wus the preacher a hitchin his boss, at our hitchin post. 



ABFS OPINION OF MEN 99 

John dropped his frown, an gathered a smile, sez he, " Abi deer, 

Here's Rev. Pastor Peterkin ; give him the rockin cheer. 

I never seen John change so quick ; why, 'for you could count 

geven, 
He made us feel as if our home, wus reely part of hevin — 
It always puzzled me to see how men could smile and bow, 
Jis anywhere, 'ceptin at home, an there, they don't know how. 
Nov/, it 'pears to me, if there's a spot where smiles count more 

than gold 
It's home, sweet home, where lovin ones make up the family fold. 
I know some men thet don't live fur, you'd think they couldn't 

fite, 
There's nuthin soots 'em 'bout the house, nuthin zackley right — 
The collers isn't stiff enuff, an buzzums rumpled up. 
The coffee biled a mite too long, an growny in the cup ; 
In winter time, when snow and sleet are rajin in a storm, 
They let the wimmin git up first to git the kitchen warm, 
And if the slavin woman sez, " I need a bonnet, deer," 
They'll git a spell, an go rite out an git a glass of beer. 



ABPS OPINION Of- MEN. 

I'VE bin a livin here about nigh onto sixty year. 
And I gess I orter know somethin 'bout folks a livin here. 
I've never had much schoolin, cos my papee wasn't ritch. 
But I have had my own idees, bout men and things an sich ; 
I've had a heep of talk with folkes, an I jedge they ginerally find 
That wot I think, I'm not afeared mostly, to speak my mind. 
Sometimes I find, salin along, I'm rowin agin the tide. 
But I'm not agoin to follera thing jist cos its the winnin side ; 
Jis show me a feller that's all the time a watchin the weather 

vane — 
That feller's a runnin after straws and losin all his grain. 
I'm only a woman, but then I've told my John agin an agin, 
There's jist one way to git along — that's do the best you kin. 



loo THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

'Twon't do to listen to Tom an Dick an Sail an Bess an Han, 

But fust be sure yer in the rite, then go it like a man. 

I told my John tother day, sez I, " You men are phools, 

The wimmin try to git you strate, but you pull back like mules. 

Yer'l have yer way fer very spite, if everthing is recked," 

But all I could git out of him was, " Yes'm ; that's ke-rekt." 

It's high time things wer mendin afore it gits too late ; 

Jis give the wimmin a chance to steer the plungin ship of state. 

You men hev had your way so long, jis doin the wust you kin, 

'Till the old ship's bolts and screws are loose, a lettin the water in. 

Yer've got her down among the rock an a hollerin " Wat'll 

we do?" 
It look's as if the rudder's gone, an I gess the compass too. 
Says I, " yer've got a pirty fix ; you've nearly recked the ship ;" 
Says he, " I'll git my pay in Congress, all rite— jes let 'er rip." 
"John," sez I, " to save the ship, I'll giv this warnin note, 
Yer've got to show yerself a man, an let the wimmin vote. 
That's where I stand. Them bunglin ways of yourn have got to 

stop, 
Fer if the wimmin hev no say, yer may's well shet up shop." 
He giv a grunt, an then sez he, givin a funny look, 
" Abi, men's made to rain, an wimmin is made to cook." 
But wol's the use to argy if men is made to rain ? 
Why don't they git some mother wit ? They need the wimmin's 

brain. 
Now, I could jis go on and on till I git old and gray 
About the way they're doin things around us every day. 
Some say the world's advancin, but they're usin lots of gloss 
To fix things up, and often they git the cart afore the boss. 
They find out quick when butter's riz, but ginerally a leetle slow 
To find out when it drops ag'in, but that's the way we go. 
But sum one's knockin at the door, an John, says "Abi, deer, 
Yer've got to do sum cookin now, there's kompany comin here." 
But if I've luck a keeping well, yer'l hear from me agen, 
Fer I've lots to say about the times, an 'bout the tricks of men. 



THE INFIDELS OF BUNCOMBE. 



THE INHDELS OE BUNCOMBE. 

I'VE just bin down to Buncombe, Ruth. An infidel convention 
Assembled in the village hall to git the people's 'tention. 
I'm quite well up in years, you know, a'most too old fer turnin, 
Still, as I often said 'afore, I'm not too old fer learnin. 
Of course, I had to go inside, to see, an hear the speakin, 
Fer truth has bin my hobby, an that's jist what I'm seekin ; 
An when I saw them long-haired men, with solemn-lookin faces, 
Somehow I felt like jinin to an pullin in their traces. 
The man presidin in the cheer, he had a heap of knowledge, 
They sed he was a leedin man, a perfesser in a college. 
He rose to make an openin speech, an reely 'twas surprisin. 
To hear him bustin churches up, and prove the Bible pisin ; 
He sed religion was a fraud, an showed how truth increases 
By pullin down the meetin house, an sniashin things to pieces. 
He sored away up to the skies, an stared at every planet, 
An rumaged all around the sun, then down through rocks an 

granite. 
Then up agin, through fog and clouds he flapt his wings of motion. 
Then down he shot, with fearful plunge, an splashed into the 

ocean. 
An then he bored through waves and mud, clean to earth's fiery 

centre, 
As if he'd bin that way 'afore, a regular frequenter. 
He said his search was all in vain, he'd scanned the whole 

creation, 
From top to bottom, pole to pole, through every realm and nation ; 
" He failed," he said, to see a God, " from planet down to fungus, 
All natur spoke in thunder tones — ' There's not a God among 

us.' " 
An so when he was done his speech, the augence roared an 

thundered. 
The village hall was shook to base, and all the village wondered. 
The people cum in crowds, and sed, " Wat's all this noise about ? " 



I02 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

An they was told, there was no God, they'd just now found it out. 

But soon the tumult ceased to hum, an order reigned agin, 

An the man presidin in the cheer sed "truth was bound to win." 

An now he introduced a man, whose voice was very pleasin, 

Who talked about the realm of mind, the divinity of reesin ; 

" Reesin," he said, " was truth enthroned, and monarch of the 

ages, 
Whose shrine received the homage of philosophers and sages, 
Old Socrates and Plato, Diogenes and Nero, 
Were greater in the realm of mind than any Bible hero ; 
Creeds were shackels," so he sed, " and preests were bent on 

plunder, 
But reezin comes with magic wand, and snaps the chains asunder. 
Mind is God ! Mind is God 1 There is no God beside it ; 
I bow my knee alone to this, let no man dare deride it " — 
Jist now a great confusion broke upon the listening 'sembly. 
A stranger with a white cravat, whose voice was weak and 

trembly, 
Arose an sed : " Shall I have leave to ask a question kindly ? 
Shall we, whose minds are made to think, bow down to reeson, 

blindly ? 
Is this your God ? What then becomes of him at time of death ? 
You shut him up within the grave ; — your God's an empty 

breath!"— 
I tell you, Ruth, 'twas like a shot, a boombshell, within doubtin. 
Whose 'splosion made the timbers fly, an set 'em all to poutin. 
The Cheerman pounded on his desk and shouted " Give attention ! 
No interruptions is allowed inside this 'ere convention. 
Each delegit will take his seet, an likewise the recorder, 
An let the bizness we've on hand perceed in perfect order." 
So, after quiet was restored, by leadin out the stranger. 
They hove a sigh of sweet relief an feared no further danger. 
A delegit then 'riz to speak, a lawyer by perfession. 
He sed "he'd studied long and hard to reech a right impression ; 
He'd read the Bible through an through, an this was his conviction : 
The Bible was a human book, full of conterdiction ; 
Sich men as Noah, Jacob, David and Solomon, the Mormon, 
Them priestly butchers and the like, I hold 'em up to scornin ; 



THE INFIDELS OF BUNCOMBE. 103 

An Moses, too, he must hev thought the people of his nation 

Were crazy dupes to b'leve his yarn of that six day's creation ; 

And then the sun, a standin still, fer Joshua's fame and glory. 

Why, 'stronomy hez long ago upset that made-up story ; 

And then about that monstrous wale that Joner tried to swaller, 

The man thet could beleeve sich stuff must be a little holler. 

Jist think," sez he, " a mity wale, as big as a sailin boat ; 

No livin man could git one down his little narrer throat." 

Jist here a little chap got up, uv weakly constitution. 

An took a scientific text ; he called it " Evolution." 

He told us "every human life, of plant an every other, 

Each was its own dear father, an each its own dear mother. 

'Twas neither Adam, nor yit Eve that founded human races, 

Millions of years 'for they was born they'd found some human 

traces ; 
All science showed the Bible false, agin the facts uv natur, 
Fer they all sed thet man evolved from a tadpole or a tater." 
Jist now a Dr. Ingersoul got up to talk an teech, 
I tell you, Ruth, he waded in an made a bustin speech. 
He tore the mask off meetin folks, tellin 'em what's the matter, 
He sed " his faith was nobler ; he believed it made him fatter." 
"This life," he sed, " was hevin," he'd never seen no other, 
Although there might be somewhere, sumthin or nuther. 
The grave it was a doorway, that led to — he couldn't guess, 
"That is," "if," "but," "don't know," "whether," "possibly," 

"unless." 
And so, in closing up their work, they passed this resolution : 
" Resolved, There is no God at all, things come by evolution." 
Who evolution is or was, or where they get the notion, 
I didn't ask ; but Ruth, they's right. I seconded the motion. 
Now Ruth jist looked me in the eye ; says she, " Yer crazy, John ; 
I thought yer had a litttle wit, but reely, I guess it's gone. 
If yer want to preach sich doctrine as them infidel debaters, 
Go 'mong yer new-found relatives, the tadpoles and the taters." 



I04 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



Quaker Meeting at Homeville, Chester Co. 

THE glowing rays of the summer sun, 
Looked down through soft and gentle gales, 
And smiled in holy beams, among 
The wooded hills, and verdant dales. 

Sweet was the breath of the quiet morn, 
Fair nature sang her sweetest lays, 
While fragrant blooms and tasseled corn 
Bowed low, the creator's name to praise. 

In sweet accord with nature's mood, 
Inspired with diviner law. 
An humble few, by grace imbued. 
Are met to muse in silent awe — 

A little temple plain and neat, 
Unornate save in humble mien ; 
Where like the ancient " Mercy Seat," 
God's holy presence oft is seen. 

The ungarnished wall, the long pine seat, 
The ancient stove, the clean scrubbed floor, 
The unstained windows plain and neat, 
The rough hewn step by the open door. 

No organ tones distract the ear. 
Shut in from worldly noise and din. 
That undisturbed, the soul might hear 
The still small voice of God within. 

There, in humbleness of mind, 
They wait the spirit's glowing fire ; 
They seek the holier gifts to find, 
Whose wealth of joy their souls inspire. 



QUAKER MEETING AT HOMEVILLE. 105 

They sit and wait, till from above, 
The silent dews of heavenly grace, 
Descend to enrich the heart with love, 
And mirror there the Father's face. 

The prayerful pause at length gives way, 
God moves upon a brother's heart, 
And prompts a kindly word to say. 
In praise of Quaker mode and Art. 

Again, in solemn silent mood, 
The plain assembly sits and waits ; 
Partaking of that richer food, 
Which God for spirit hunger breaks — 

An aged Friend, borne down by years. 
Still youthful in the Spirit's might. 
With solemn reverence now appears, 
To point the way from gloom to light. 

Commissioned by no churchly voice. 
Ordained, not by a Bishop's word, 
But sent alone by Heaven's choice, 
A chosen vessel of the Lord. 

God's own dear truth she seeks to apply, 
Her words are words of hope and cheer. 
She lifts the Gospel trumpet high, 
And calls the listening soul to hear. 

And so the helpful hour moves on, 
Each soul receives a portion there, 
Hope revived, and faith made strong. 
And all, built up by love and prayer. 

With acts of worship pure and sweet, 
Like Mary learning of her Lord, 
They sit and learn at Jesus' feet. 
Sweet lessons from, the living word. 



io6 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

The whisper of the Father's name, 
The Spirit's unopposed control, 
The steady purpose, wish and aim, 
The inner longings of the soul. 

Amid conflicting doubts and strife, 
A pure and heavenly calm within ; 
A craving after purer life, 
A freedom, from the taint of sin. 

A holy, humble walk with God, 
As well in darkness, as in light, 
Resigned, beneath the chastening rod, 
Assured whate'er he wills is right. 

With these sweet tempers of the soul, 
Nought can disturb the inner rest, 
When storms arise and billows roll. 
In all things, such are truly blest. 

The wealth of earth gives no true bliss. 
It's gold is rust, it's pleasures dross ; 
The sunshine of the soul is this— 
The sombre shadow of the Cross. 

Here be my shelter, hope and stay, 
To this I cling though all else dies, 
When earth's foundations melt away, 
The Cross shall lift me to the skies. 



'' BEHOLD THE MAN!" 107 



"BEHOLD THE MAN!" 

JOHN XIX 15. 

'OEHOLD the man !" the craven Pilate cries — 
LI " Crucify him !" the howling mob replies, 
In meek submission, the lowly Jesus stands, 
Mute and speechless, to the mob's demands. 
No words of murmur from his lips escape. 
No tremor on the verge of dark impending fate — 
There he stands ! a portrait of content, 
'Mid all that storm of shame, and fierce contempt. 
Calm and moveless, in that roaring flood. 
With but one thought — to bear, for other's good — ■ 
Calm and moveless as the eternal rock, 
He shrinks not, from the rude and hellish shock — 
Behold the picture ! — the Christ— the " man," 
Paint the weird scene, mortals, if ye can. 
No human artist hath power to portray 
The hellish glare, of that stupendous day — 
That surging mass, that fierce satanic yell. 
That leaps from legions of a nether hell, 
Who throng the streets, and tread the temple court, 
The vilest of the low, and baser sort. 
Whose fiendish cry, so like a fiery flood, 
Raging, roaring for guiltless, guileless blood — 
Oh, Jerusalem ! how fallen thy estate ! 
Once so glorious, now, a den of hate ; 
Once, thy temple prized of God and man. 
Now, the refuge of a murderous clan ; 
Once, the glory of a wondering world. 
Now, into a gulf of shameless ruin hurled — 
O'er thy lost estate, thy fall so dark and deep. 
Well did Jesus blush in shame, and weep, 
Fain would he, as a hen, her tender brood. 



io8 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

Have sheltered thee, beneath his wing of good ; 

Alas ! ye would not therefore deep thy gloom, 

Thy house, desolate, with direst doom — 

But see ! " Behold the Man !" there, there, he stands ; 

The impetuous throng held back by soldier bands, 

The Roman spear, the keen uplifted sword. 

Stays the mad rush of the rabble horde — 

" Behold the Man !" arrayed in mocking scorn, 

With purple robe, and plaited crown of thorn — 

See the torn brow, its laceratings trace, 

The warm blood trickling down his placid face, 

The blighting smart receives no kind relief; 

Yet these but faintly speak his nameless grief, 

A grief so vast, that none its weight could share, 

So great, that none but God himself could bear ; 

A world's dread guilt, its weighless weight of sin. 

Borne unmurmured, unhelped alone by him ; 

He, without guile, without sin, or stain, 

The appointed Lamb, for sin and sinners slain — 

But see ! the mad crowd ! it surges to and fro 

In frenzied wrath, their vilest passions show — 

" Behold your King !" is Pilate's false decree — 

The scorning multitudes, bow the scornful knee — 

" All hail !" they cry, their mocking gestures show 

How false their heart, how cold, how low, 

How base their jeers ; with derisive smile 

They bow and jest, they sneer, revile ; 

They place the mock sceptre in his gentle hand, 

And sham obeisance at the mob's command ; 

They grasp the mock reed, without fear or dread, 

And smite with pleasure that thorn torn head. 

And, as if to plunge him still lower in disgrace, 

They rudely spit, in that immaculate face. 

And thus they rave, no act too base, too low. 

If only they may thrust him deeper into hellish woe. 

All that hate and envy, or satan could devise, 

Is brought to crush him, by concerted lies — 

The haughty scribes, and chief among the Priests, 



''BEHOLD THE MAN!'' 109 

Like vultures, or like wild devouring beasts, 
Clamored for his blood, his harmless life, 
And led the noisy rabble in the hideous strife ; 
Disgraced their sacred office, and incite 
The lordly Pilate, by their shameless spite, 
E'en the sacred Temple, they dare profane. 
And soil its walls with their unblushing shame — 
Oh, ye Priests, ye scribes, in envy, ye excel ; 
"Vipers," "hypocrites," "liars," " proselytes of hell." 
Well did the Master bare your hideous soul. 
And show to mortal gaze, your judgment roll — 
'Twas j)/(??^r vile work, to crush the " Son of Man," 
To point the nail, the spear ; to lay the plan 
That forced the blood drops from his loving heart. 
By thrusting deep, the bitter, poisoned dart— 
" Behold the Man ! " so calm, so patient yet. 
His lacerated brow, his trickling bloody sweat. 
His quivering flesh, his deep impassioned sigh. 
His trembling limbs, his blood shot sunken eye- 
Still, no voice of murmur, from his voiceless lips. 
Despite the jeers, despite the blood that drips, 
Now trickling down e'en to his tired feet, 
His whole frame burning, with a fevered heat. 
From the cruel scourging of the soldier's lash — 
Still the crowds mock on, their teeth they gnash. 
And Pilate, grim, unmoved, beholds it all. 
And sits unstirred and stolid, in the Judgment hall — 
Hard hearted Pilate ! he hears the mob deride. 
He yields, delivers Jesus to be crucified — 
Oh, cowardly Pilate ! what hast thou done ?^- 
Consigned to a mob, the Holy, harmless one. 
Despite the lashings of thy guilty soul. 
For the paltry gains of a shameless goal. 
Thou bearest the sceptre of a tyrant's rod. 
To smite with death, the spotless Son of God — 
How dark the depravity of thy inhuman heart. 
To play so black, so vile, so base a part. 
To stifle conscience, and enthrone deceit. 



no THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

To trample innocence, 'neath thy unhallowed feet, 
To bow to the fiat of a soulless mob, 
Whose heart beats only, with a hellish throb, 
Whose only aim, whose mad and murderous cry 
Is " away with him," " crucify ! crucify ! " 
" Away with him," " Nail to the accursed tree " — 
"Not this man " — " Barrabas must go free "— 
Oh, shameless Pilate ! accursed is thy name. 
No trace of pity, honor, mercy, shame. 
Seems ever once, to gain in thee control. 
Or sway thy dark, thy mercenary soul : 
Intrenched behind proud Caesar's godless throne, 
Thy heart is cold, and lifeless as a stone ; 
Before thee stands in calm and suffering mien. 
The humble, lowly, patient, " Nazarene ; " 
The suffering Son of Man, the Mighty God ! 
Who meekly bears thy lacerating rod. 
Restraining his Almighty will and power. 
He shrinks not from the darkness of the hour, 
Serenest, 'mid that hooting, seething throng. 
He bears unmoved, the crushing hideous wrong, 
His spirit firm, dignified and calm. 
No wonder Pilate shouts " Behold the Man ! " — 
No taint of fear, no dread, no trembling trace, 
A strange composure marks that tranquil face. 
While all about him is tumultuous noise. 
He alone is calm, his soul, in tranquil poise- 
Vainly the mad billows rush and hotly roll. 
Against the sweet serenity of his soul. 
Like God he bears, the ever-increasing scorn. 
While taunting Pilate, sets the Crown of Thorn— 
Slowly the soldiers move, the mob gives way. 
The Temple dial, points the third hour of day ; 
The sun shines clear, toward fast approaching noon, 
The hour has come ! the pregnant hour of doom — 
The boisterous crowds follow the soldier's tread. 
The tumult swells, a requiem of the dead — 
Three solemn forms, under guard pass by. 



' ' BEHOLD THE MAN! " 1 1 

Slowly they wend their way, condemned, to die ! 

One only, of the three, seems calm, yet short of breath. 

He alone is fearless, in the pale cold face of death, 

Upon his weary shoulders, the rough-hewn cross is laid ; 

'Tis hard and heavy, up the sloping grade ; 

The outer gate is passed and up the steep ascent. 

The " Man of Sorrows," 'neath his cross is bent ; 

Till almost crushed, he sinks beneath his load. 

And bloody footprints, mark the dusty road — 

A far off stranger, drawn by the tumult loud, 

Mingles in wonder with the boisterous crowd ; 

He presses through the rabble, as on it passed. 

To catch a glimpse of him, on whom all eyes are cast, 

Beholds him fainting, 'neath the mob's demand, 

And with pitying glance, inclines a helping hand. 

Perchance a silent tear falls from the stranger's eye, 

Which the rough wild crowd, disdainfully descry, 

And as if to show their hate for a pitying plea. 

They lay on hini, the rugged blood-stained tree — 

The lowly Nazarene, still meekly follows on. 

Still the mute object of the insulting throng. 

Up the rugged steep of bleak Golgotha's height, 

He calmly ascends 'mid jeers and scoffing spite, 

Ever and anon amid the boisterous din 

Is heard the rude coarse cry — " Crucify him ! " — 

While on his bleeding brow falls oft a cruel blow, 

By some vile one, who deeper hate would show ; 

Still, his lips are closed, though the rabble scoff and hoot — 

As a Lamb before its shearers, so is he, dumb and mute. 

No word of murmur escapes his silent lips, 

As deeper still, the cup of woe he sips. 

He bears it all, the crushing, cruel pain, 

He yields to insult, ignominy, shame ; 

They know not, as they breathe their murderous breath, 

That e'en for them he bleeds, for them, he suffers death ; 

They care not, nor do they cease to cry — 

" Away with him ! " " Let this fellow die ! " 

" Release Barrabus ! Let the murderers go ! " 



112 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

" But this Nazarene, let him sink down in woe ! " 

Let him go down beneath the fiery flood — 

" On us, and on our children, be his blood ! " 

Thus they cry, from morn till eventide. 

While e'en his friends desert his loving side ; 

His own disciples, even as cowards are. 

And group in trembling fear and dread, afar. 

No hand is there to wipe the dripping sweat, 

The blood drops, with which his brow is wet ; 

No help comes near, to soothe his troubled soul ; 

Nor stay the tide, whose fiery billows roll 

Across his breast, in anguish deep and hot, 

Alone, forsaken, friendless, is his lot — 

But see ! they've reached the summit of the rocky slope, 

And now they plan, to inflict the horrid stroke. 

The executioners haste nervously, to and fro ; 

Prepare to inflict the pre-determined blow. 

The rough hewn cross, the rope, for these they call. 

The sponge, the hysop branch, the nails, the gall. 

The victim's wait, with heavy stifled breath — 

Behold the man ! ready for the horrid stroke of death — 

The yelling crowd, impatient at delay. 

Can wait no longer for the bloody fray ; 

Madder still with hate, like a sweeping flood. 

They rave, and thirst, and clamor for his blood — 

They lay him on the cross, its rough hewn beams, 

Already stained with freshly crimsoned streams— 

A lull prevails, the vast crowd seems unstirred, 

For once, strange silence reigns, and nought is heard 

Save the sighing wind, as it moans a solemn dirge, 

Wierd and sullen, at death's dread verge — 

Still he opens not his mouth, not a murmuring word, 

Only a prayer, for his foes, is heard — 

" Father forgive them they know not what they do," 

Falls from his gentle lips, as in review. 

He calmly scans the motley surging crowd 

Of scribe, and Pharisee, and Priest so proud : 

Of Rabbi, Publicans, sinners, high and low. 



'' BEHOLD THE MAN!'' 113 

Greeks and Romans, gazing on the scene of woe 
With callous heart, with scarce a tearful eye ; 
No word of pity for him, condemned to die — 
The work goes on, still, he does not quail, 
Though through his quivering flesh they drive the nail 
Through hands and feet, fast to the rugged tree. 
The nails go crashing, iox you and me ! — 
Oh, the suffering of that dreadful hour ! 
Past all conception, beyond angelic power 
To comprehend — who can compute its deeps ; 
Its measurless gulf — its topless steeps ? 
In vain do angels ask, " what doth it mean ? " 
This deep strange mystery, this appalling scene? 
Beyond their grasp, they stand in speechless fright, 
O'erwhelmed and mute, astounded, at the sight — 
Still the dread work goes on, the work of blood, 
The spotless victim is nailed to the accursed wood ; 
Still meek and placid, patient toward his foes. 
Patient, resigned, to all his crushing woes — 
The crowds look on, in wonder and surprise. 
To see how calmly he meets his fate, and dies — 
Behold him on the cross ! 'twixt two vile thieves, 
They writhe in pain, he, gently breathes. 
They e'en deride, and join the insulting crowd. 
Who shout their scoffing insults, long and loud. 
The guilty thieves forget their well-earned grief, 
And cast a shameful taunt into his "teeth," 
He the Lord of Glory calmly bears it all. 
Though angelic legions, wait his bidding call — 
Behold him ! as the crowds deride, abuse, 
And scoff and hail him — "Jesus, King of Jews ! " 
They nail the mock inscription o'er his head. 
And point the scornful finger, as 'twas read ; 
They wag their heads, derisively they rave, 
" Others he saved," " himself he cannot save " — 
" If he be God, let him regain his loss," 
" Let him, if he can, come down from yonder Cross ! " 
" Let him save his life, or thwart this smiting rod ! " 



114 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

"So shall we know, he is the Son of God " — 

Thus they deride and mock, the live-long day, 

They mock, they sneer, they jest, in sportive play. 

As though the place of torture were a gay resort. 

Where all Jerusalem, had met for lightsome sport, 

A scene to amuse, o'er which to laugh and jest. 

In which they gladly join, with a religious zest — 

The Temple dial now points the hour of noon. 

The hour is come ! that seals the book of doom — 

A startling silence ushers the mid-day hour, 

The undimned sun, tinges the Temple tower. 

Its radiance gleams amid the noontide ray, 

Not e'en a cloud obscures the orb of day — 

Suddenly ! the heavens assume a wierd and startling hue, 

And the cloudless sky, strangely darker grew. 

The sight o'erpowers and awes the boisterous crowd. 

As Nature seems to clothe her, in a sable shroud. 

The noonday sun, abashed at the appalling sight 

Shrinks back in terror, as if in dread affright. 

He veils his face in deepest midnight gloom, 

As if had come the last dread day of doom ; 

Insulted Nature, hides her blushing face. 

The solid earth now trembles in her place, 

The earth, the air, the strangely darkened sky. 

Unite in one mysterious, startling cry, 

A mighty pang wrings Nature's throbbing soul. 

The rumbling wheels of coming judgment roll. 

An unseen hand checks Nature's heaving breath, 

And holds her in the quivering throes of death, 

The dread portent, the stifling darkened air. 

Portrays the unutterable anguish of despair — 

What means this dread this deep convulsive throe ? 

Ah, 'tis the agony of an immeasurable woe, 

A woe whose depth no plummet line can tell. 

High as heaven, deep as the nether hell, 

A woe whose pang can never be made known. 

So vast, it touches e'en the Eternal Throne, 

A fiery wave, whose burning, blighting sweep, 



" BEHOLD THE MAN! " 115 

Would fain make even angels eyes to weep, 
Before whose dark and inexorable law, 
The hosts of heaven stand in trembling awe- 
Above the din of Nature's mighty throb, 
Is heard e'en yet the clamor of the mob, 
The boisterous rush, the swelling human tide ; 
Still dashes 'gainst Golgotha's rocky side, 
The noisy sneer, the taunting look of scorn, 
Toward him, who wears the platted Crown of Thorn ; 
Toward him, who hangs transfixed upon the Cross 
In suffering agony, for the soul's dread loss. 
Not for friends alone but for his foes as well ; 
Oh ! who, the measure of such love can tell ? — 
A momentary hush, then hark ! a strange mysterious cry — 
" E/oi, E/oi, Lama Sabacthani ! " 
"■My God! My God! ivhy hast thou forsaken me f'' 
Breaks from the summit of darkened Calvary, 
The bleeding Christ, a victim of despair? 
Nay ! 'tis crushed humanity speaks, alone to bear 
The world's dread guilt, which only he could lift, 
Which only he, the Father's dearest gift 
Could bear, 'tis he whose bitter, bitter cry. 
Pierces the gloom of earth, and darkened sky. 
To save a ruined world, a lost degraded race. 
He left his glory, stooped from his high place. 
Bore the shame, the pain, the voluntary loss. 
The death and agony, of a shameful Cross — 
" Eloi! Eloi! Lama Sabacthani !'' 
Oh, the dreadful import of that piercing cry. 
The Father only knows, its dire, its vast extent. 
Its weight of woe, the breadth of its intent. 
Its depth of grief, the value of its blood. 
He alone could fathom that deep o'erwhelming flood. 
Were Christ not God, his woe must crush him down. 
The voiceless throne, the world's black frown 
Would crush the Christ, stamp out his vital breath. 
And drag Creation down to hopeless death ; 
But, God forsakes him not, His hidden hand 



ii6 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

Beckons to the unseen hosts, his swift command — 

They fly to the rescue, the avenging throng, 

To thwart the might of that most hideous wrong, 

To break the rage of the o'erpowering spell. 

And rout the cohorts from the pit of hell — 

But see ! despite the gloom of the midday night, 

The seething rabble still vent their bitter spite — 

" Will Elias come ? " say they in scornful sneer, 

" He Cometh not, he doth not heed nor hear " — 

"If God will have him, let him take him now," 

" For did he not himself, his son, avow ? " — 

The Christ still bears the shame, he bears it all. 

The horrid insult, heaven's hosts appall. 

No wonder the rolling sun should hide his face. 

And shrink to gaze upon the wretched race ; 

For three dread hours, withhold his insulted light. 

And smite the scene with darkest shades of night — 

But one small group in all that motley throng, 

Seems moved with anguish, at the shameful wrong-^ 

Far off, they view the scene, their tears proclaim 

How deep their sorrow, and how dear, his name ; 

A few frail women, and Disciples full of fear. 

Too few, too far, too faint, to offer cheer — 

They trod_with him the shores of Galilee, 

They shared his gloom in dark Gethsemane, 

They saw his tears, they saw his bloody sweat. 

They walked with him on lovely Olivet, 

They sat with him by Jordan's winding stream, 

They felt his touch, his presence, so serene ; 

And now they mutely tremble and bemoan 

That he should bear his crushing load alone — 

But hark ! he speaks again, a strangely doleful cry 

Now shakes the earth, and drapes the sombre sky — 

" ' Tis finished ! " and above the blackening gloom. 

Breaks forth this startling cry like clap of doom. 

The forked lightnings play, they flash, and fly. 

Like streams of fire athwart the darkened sky : 

The thunders roll, the heavens seem ablaze, 



• ' BEHOLD THE MAN!'' 117 

And all things tremble, in bewildered maze, 

The rocks are torn, the mighty mountains quake ; 

The massive pillars of earth and sky, now shake, 

But, while they stare, and darkness blacker grows, 

The Master's Cross, with unearthly lustre glows — 

" ' Tis finished ! " breaks from Calvary's darkened height. 

And demons fear and fly, in dread affright — 

" ' Tis finis/ied / " Lo 1 all nature hears the cry. 

The mighty earthquake shakes the earth and sky — 

" ' Tis finished/" — the grief and bitter pain. 

The Temple vail is rent throughout, in twain, 

From top to bottom torn, it hangs a shred ; 

An echo of that voice, that wakes the dead ; 

The massive stones of the solid Temple wall, 

Rock and reel, as if about to fall ; 

The city shaken by the heaving shock. 

The reeling mountain, and the rending rock. 

The blackened sun, the strangely lurid skies, 

Confess him Lord of Glory, as he dies. 

Confess him Lord of all. Supreme, Divine, 

In whom the Father's glories beam and shine ; 

The " express image " of the Father's holy face. 

Full of mercy, truth, and all prevailing grace ; 

The brightness of his glory, evermore. 

Whom earth and heaven, in unison adore — 

" ' Tis finished/" is his last expiring cry, 

" ' Tis finished / " and he yields himself to die ; 

" ' Tis finished/" and the mighty work is done, 

" ' Tis finished," and a finished victory won. 

Death, Hell and Satan languish in defeat, 

God triumphant. Hell, beneath his feet. 

" Captivity, captive," the blood dissolves the chain. 

The Son of God, his captive ones regain — 

A finished work, through his expiring groan ; 

Sin's sceptre broken, his stronghold overthrown, 

A finished work, a ransom full and free ; 

Accepted, and complete, for you and me. 

The whole creation, by Jesus' dying breath. 



118 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

Plucked as a brand from the fiery pit of death ; 
A finished work ! a full atonement made, 
A more than equal price for Man's redemption paid — 
But see ! the central Cross on Calvary's lurid height, 
Gleams still brighter, amid surrounding night : 
Above, around, beneath, a rayless gloom, 
Darker than the darkness of the tomb. 
Dismayed by what they hear, by what they saw, 
The swaying multitude is dumb with horrid awe, 
The mighty voice, the patient suffering mien, 
The untold agony, the midday darkness seen, 
The rumbling heavens, the reeling tossing earth. 
The nameless agonies of Nature's second birth. 
The rending vail, the mighty heaving throb. 
All ! all proclaim, surely, ''this is the Son of Gody 
Well may they smite their guilty troubled breast, 
Their crime bemoan, their guilt, with shame confess. 
Impending judgment heaps its gathering ire. 
Prepares to smite with dread consuming fire 
The holy city, and the once exalted race 
Spurn-ed of the Nations, shamed and in disgrace, 
A hissing and a by-word, to latest hour of time ; 
The scorn and hate of every age and clime. 
Yet, he dies for them ; for them he prays anew, 
"Father forgive them they know not what they do " — 
Hath he cast away the people of his choice ? 
He calls them still, by his inviting voice- 
See him hanging on the Cross of Shame, 
Ye who pierced him ; Mercy is his name. 
There he hangs, bereft of life and breath. 
Calm and placid, in his seeming death. 
A joy to devils, a spectacle to man. 
Angels baffled to understand the plan. 
Nature confounded, all things aghast. 
And hell exulting o'er its strange repast— 
" It is finished ! " echoes o'er Judea's hills, 
Adown the slope of ages, its startling music thrills ; 
The soldier's spear, thrust into his lifeless side, 



''BEHOLD THE MAN!'' 119 

Opens a healing Fountain deep and wide, 
A celestial spring, whose waters ne'er go dry, 
Who drink of this, shall thirst no more nor die !— 
" Finished! " Oh the glory of that transcendent word ; 
The sweetest music mortal ever heard — 
How strange the mystic alchemy of the Cross, 
It turns to fadeless gold, earthly grief and loss- 
Dear Lamb of God, for sinners rudely slain, 
Thy Cross resplendent with the Spirit's flame. 
Thy name is radient with eternal light ; 
Thy glory gilds the darkest shades of night— 
" From shame and spitting " thou didst not hide thy face. 
Thou bearest our griefs, our sorrows, our disgrace. 
On thee was laid the iniquity of us all. 
Stricken, smitten, afflicted, by our fall. 
The chastisement of our peace, on thee was laid. 
Thy bitter stripes,' our healing balm is made- 
Here then, on Calvary's blood-stained mount 
We take our stand, hard by the opened fount. 
We gaze into our dear Redeemer's face. 
His matchless love, and e'en His Cross, embrace. 
His blood our life, his death our only plea, 
He paid the ransom price, for thee— for me— 
''Behold the Man! " his work is finished, done ! 
The Father glorified in his obedient Son, 
The Race redeemed— let Heaven and earth adore 
Our Lord— our Ransom— the Christ for evermore ! 



I20 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 



MY BROTHER'S LONELY GRAVE. 



Decoration Day. 



WILL they deck dear brother's grave to-day ? 
With memory's grateful tear ? 
Will they scatter the lovely flowers of May, 
Upon his grassy bier ? 

He sleeps, the patriot's honored sleep, 

Beneath an unknowtn grave * 
His life he gave — we dare not weep, 

His Country's life to save. 

Scatter the roses pure and fair. 

Over his lonely grave ; 
Breathe a fragrant blessing there ; 

He died, the Flag to save. 

Ah, will they deck his grave to-day ? 

With the Flag he died to save. 
Will they strew the dewy flowers of May, 

Upon his UNKNOW^N grave ? 



* The author's brother occupies an unknown grave in the Soldiers' Cemetery, 



at "Arlington," Washington, D. C 



JAMES BAYARD JEFFERIS. 



JAMES BAYARD JErrERIS. 



Memoriam. 



ENTERED into rest," his labors o'er, 
Fatigue and pain and toil no more. 
The evening shades of life's short day 
Are tinged with hope's illuming ray. 
As sinks the sun in the golden west, 
So sinks he into tranquil rest. 

"Entered into rest," a friend indeed. 
Who never spurned another's need ; 
His open hand, his generous heart. 
Ne'er failed a blessing to impart. 
Faith and works, he sought to blend — 
Traits of a truest, noblest friend. 

" Entered into rest," each action bent. 
To leave the legacy of a life well spent ; 
Sympathetic, gentle, of purest aim. 
He leaves the aroma of an honest name — 
A name untouched by sordid breath, 
Better than gold, stronger than death. 

"Entered into rest," his empty place 
Echoes his footstep, mirrors his face ; 
A void that speaks the absence of a man 
Whose years— not measured by life's short span. 
Are fraught with motives from above. 
Adorned with meekness, charity and love. 



122 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

" Entered into rest," with him 'tis light, 
And not the gloom of death's dark night ; 
The stroke of death's unerring aim. 
Falls harmless at the good man's name. 
Death rends the vail that hides the true, 
But brings the eternal into view. 

" Entered into rest." Farewell ! Farewell ! 
Beyond death's sullen surging swell 
That breaks on Time's tempestuous shore, 
Thou hast thy rest, where beats no more 
The angry tide on thy calm breast. 
There, there, thou hast thy well-earned rest. 



MYSTERIOUS SUNSETS IN lo55.^ 

INEXPLICABLE mystery ! sublimely grand, 
I Baffling human wisdom to explain ; 
Radiance streaming from the Almighty hand. 
Hieroglyphic torch of lurid flame ! 

Startling thou art ! a blazing scroll ; 

Which all may see, but none have skill to read, 
A flaming herald with prophetic soul, 

Mounted upon a mystic fiery steed. 

Whence hast thou thy strange and sudden birth 
'Mongst flashing stars, and orbs of azure light ? 

Hast thou a mission to benighted earth ? — 

Dost thou proclaim the end of sin's dark night ? 

Would it were so ! by far too long ! too long ! 
Hath error's dark and ever direful gloom, 



* For almost a whole year, the strange, fiery appearance of the sunset heavens 
were the puzzle of Scientists and the wonder of the whole civilized world. 



MYSTERIOUS SUNSETS OF 1883. 123 

Borne down the true, and raised aloft the wrong — 

'Tis time eternal justice should pronounce its doom. 

'Tis monstrous error, that uplifts its hydra head, 
To crush the struggling conflict of the right, 

That gloats o'er wreck of souls and mocks the dead ; 
Defies the Almighty with its puny might — 

A frenzied fury madly stalks abroad, 

With venomed word, and fiery poisoned breath ; 
Stabs innocence with a two-edge sword, 

And spreads the miasma of a fetid death. 

Insidious skepticism with her deceptive art 

Inserts her poisoned fangs with direful scope ; 

With subtle reasoning plies her fatal part. 

To crush the fabric of our Faith and Hope— 

And rum's satanic sway^ — its murderous throne. 

Submerged in blood, surcharged with hellish fire, 

Drenched with tears ; rings out its fiendish groan. 
And haunts wrecked souls with unrelenting ire. 

Oh, lurid sky ! well mayest thou deign to blush. 

To gaze on scenes of such satanic birth — 
Dost thou flash fire, with eager haste to crush 

The monster evils that environ earth ? 

Thy flaming sword perchance now points the word, 

" The day is at hand," " Time shall be no more " — 

The Archangel's trump e'en now is heard — 

The judgment dawneth, the night of sin is o'er. 



124 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE BLESSED "MERCY SEAT/' 

WHERE two or three together meet, 
There, is the Lord's own " Mercy Seat." 
The Cherubim, beneath whose wings 
Eternal Light, its radiance flings ; 
Aglow, amid the heavenly flame 
Are they, who meet in Jesus' name — 
Where two or three together meet. 
There is the Lord's own " Mercy Seat." 

Where two or three in concord meet, 
There, flames the shining " Mercy Seat ;" 
The Father, Spirit, and the Son, 
And they who worship, all are one. 
The melting rays of light divine. 
In dazzling splendors round them shine — 
How sweet to those who thus shall meet, 
Around the Lord's own " Mercy Seat." 

Where two or three in meekness meet, 
There is the Lord's own " Mercy Seat." 
The meek, the humble and the pure, 
Shall find the promised presence sure ; 
He, in the midst of them shall be, 
Who sweetly, in His name agree. 
And thus for them who thus shall meet, 
The Lord hath set the " Mercy Seat." 

Oh holy ! blessed ! " Mercy Seat," 
Where e'er shall press our tired feet, 
Amid the world's encircling gloom, 
E'en down to shadows of the tomb ; 
Thy light, shall make our toilsome way 
Shine brighter, than the noontide ray, 
And they shall walk the golden street, 
Who love the blessed " Mercy Seat." 



DEFINING A GENTLEMAN. 125 



DEriMING A GENTLENAN. 



MY muse is a Pedagogue on his lofty chair, 
With wrinkled brow and a quizzical air, 
With austere mien and a searching glance, 
His eye as sharp as an Uhlan's lance ; 
Like a fiery steed, with courage large, 
He pants to make his mental charge — 
" Here is a word, define if you can — 
Define if you please, a gentleman ?" 

2. 
" Gentleman ! — is a man whose dress is neat, 
Tidy from his head to the soles of his feet. 
Haughty in manner, dignified, proud, 
Standing aloof from the common crowd, 
Moving among the plebeian hoard, 
Grand as a monarch, gay as a lord ; 
Seeming to say to the passers by, 
I am a gentleman, who will deny ? " 

3- 
" Next ! " says the teacher, what is your view ? — 
" Mine," says the pupil, "is somewhat new ; 
As I understand it, a gentleman's a man 
Who makes money fast, and spends all he can ; 
He dives into stocks, and heavy percent. 
And goes for your purse, to the fullest extent, 
Revels in luxury, enjoys what he spends. 
And suffers no lack of admiring friends." 

4- 
" Next ! " calls the teacher, " will you if you can. 
Tell us the meaning of the word gentleman ? " — 



126 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

" Yes," says the pupil, "I will, if you please — 
A gentleman is one who lives at his ease. 
His delicate hands, he refuses to soil, 
With the taint of dust and the labor of toil, 
Calm and serene, his days are blest 
With studied ease, and labored rest. 
Till weary of life and its dreaded loads. 
The empty bubble at last explodes." 



" Next ! " the impatient teacher cries — 

" I'll define the word," the next replies — 

"A gentleman is a man, who is very polite ; 

Politeness with him is a studied delight. 

He bows with such grace, lifts his hat with a smile ; 

Makes a goddess of fashion and worships in style, 

A gentleman then I must insist, 

Is a sort of perfumed 'will o' the wisp.' " 

6. 
" Not correct," says the teacher, " I pass to the next," 
His patience exhausted, and seemingly vexed, 
" Ah yes ! " says the pupil, " I have the ideal, 
A gentleman's a man who is true as steel. 
His coat may be patched, but his heart is whole ; 
His hands be rough, but a noble soul, 
A friend of the friendless, he aids all he can. 
This sir, I conceive, is the true gentleman." 

7- 
" Ah now," says the teacher, " you've hinted the plan. 
By which to discern the true gentleman ; 
'Tis not his politeness, his wealth, nor his dress ; 
His refinement of manner, though much these express, 
'Tis virtue and honor, charity and love. 
Justice, Mercy, and Truth, traits born from above, 
True types of the man whom angels applaud, 
The grandest, noblest, work of God." 



RESURRECTION OF LAZARUS. 127 



RESURRECTION OE LAZARUS. 

JOHN XI. 

ON the eastern slope of Olivet, where the sunbeam's ray of 
bliss, 
Comes with fresh and golden beauty, and bestows its morning 

kiss ; 
There amid the waving Palm trees, nestling 'neath the orient 

shade, 
Stands sweet Bethany, loved Bethany, in her loveliness arrayed. 

In the charming little village, on a quaint sequestered street, 
Stands an humble little cottage, with domestic joy, replete ; 
All about the cosy cottage, wears a glow of sweet repose, 
Sweet and pure as breath of summer, fair and fragrant as the rose. 

Loving hands, with gentle touches, deck the humble cottage home, 
With sweet pictures of affection, spotless, as the ether dome ; 
Loving Sisters, Mary, Martha, gentle, tender, kind and true. 
Trusting in a brother's shelter, all the live-long hours through. 

Brother Lazarus, Mary, Martha, happy in their chosen lot. 
Form the charming family circle, in the humble little cot ; 
Sweet the toiling, light the labor, shorn of all its bitter load. 
By endearments strong and lasting, which illume the loved abode. 

But, a light by far transcending e'en the brightness of the sun, 
Streams about the lowly dwelling, when the evening shades come 

on ; 
For a stranger, meek and lowly, with a sad yet thoughtful face, 
Slowly down the Mount of Olives, seeks a quiet resting place. 

Finds the almost hidden cottage, enters through the open door. 
Breathes a blessing pure and holy, richer far than golden ore — 
Who is this whose stately stepping, bears the impress of a King ? 
Yet whose visage, pure and comely, courts no royal honoring ? 



128 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

Who is this, alone and weary, slow of foot and tired breath ? 
Ah, 'tis Jesus, friend of friendless, Jesus Christ of Nazareth, — 
Welcome tokens greet the stranger, as if with his presence blest ; 
Tokens freighted with affection, claiming him their welcome 
guest. 

While the Blessed Master tarries, willing hands with loving zeal, 
Spread the scanty means of comfort, set the humble cottage meal. 
Acts of kindness, tender, touching, pure and gentle as the dove, 
Touch the Saviour's heart of mercy, wins his holy truest love. 

"Careful" Martha serves the Master, with laborious love replete, 
Thoughtful Mary, calm and earnest, meekly sits at Jesus' feet ; 
Brother Lazarus, strong and stalwart, seeks affection's strength to 

prove. 
Till he gains immortal honor, till he wins the Master's love. 

So the little honored household, wears a fadeless coronet, 
Gleaming like a star of glory, over darkened Olivet ; 
Over Bethany it lingers, spreads from thence its glowing way. 
Till the world beholds its beauty, and reflects the shining ray. 

Till the earth is tinged with glory, circled by a burning zone. 
Lighting, warming, blessing, cheering, every human heart and 

home — 
Days glide on, the little household, hears the Master's sad adieu, 
On the dusty road to " Salem," wearily then his steps pursue. 

There, amid the Priestly clamor, foes with murder on their breath. 
He unmoved, befriends the needy, they, in secret plan his death ; 
But, his hour not yet present, by the clamorous mob pursued, 
Slowly passes over Jordan, to Belhabara's solitude. 

There in quiet toils of mercy, toward the halt, the poor, the blind, 
Jesus finds his longed-for pleasure, severed hearts to heal and bind ; 
From the rocky wilds of Jordan, from Mount Gilead's mountain 

air, 
Listening to his words of wisdom, " Multitudes believed him 

there." 



RESURRECTION OF LAZAR US. 1 29 

Thus while Jesus tarries yonder, shedding rays of love and light, 
Favored Bethany sits in darkness, shrouded in the gloom of night ; 
In the little loving household, hearts with consternation fill, 
Dark foreboding veils the cottage—" He whom Jesus loved is ill." 

Tenderly the anxious sisters, wait and hope, and watch, and pray 
That a loving brother's illness, speedily may pass away : 
Day by day they watch his bedside, hope delays and fears break in. 
Till with anxious soul they wonder, whether hope or fear shall win. 

Loving neighbors, kind and thoughtful, strive the troubled hearts 

to cheer. 
While the grieving sisters murmur, " Oh ! if He were only here ! " 
But, alas ! the Master's absence, makes the keener, pangs of grief, 
Knowing if He were but present, surely he would give relief. 

All that loving hearts could offer, all that loving hands could do, 
Careful watching, skilled phjsician, weaker still the brother grew : 
Now alarmed, the saddened sisters, in their sore distressing need, 
Send a message to the Master, praying him to haste with speed. 

Freighted with the touching message, "Stay not, haste ye, oh be 

quick," 
Tell the Master when ye meet him, " Lord, he whom thou lovest, 

is sick." 
" Surely this will touch the Master, nothing more ye need to say," 
This will bring his longed-for presence, haste ye then— make no 

delay. 

In the cottage, oh, what anguish, oh what sleepless sad unrest, 
Rayless seems the sky above them, yet his coming calms their 

breast. 
Often at the darkened windows, from within the drear abode, 
Do the stricken sisters gather, peering down the lonely road. 

If perchance they may but see him, ere the setting of the sun, 

In their bitter anguish crying, " Will he come ! Oh will he come ! " 



I30 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Thus while twiHght beams are fading, darkly as the shades of 

death, 
Naught is heard save sighs and weeping, mingling with the gasping 

breath. 

" Oh dear brother if the Master, only knew our bitter grief, 
Surely he would hasten quickly, to extend his sure relief" — 
But the night grows dark and dreary, burdened with impending 

doom, 
Till the lonely midnight hour, spreads its sombre pall of gloom. 

See the calm and patient sufferer ! nought attests his notice now, 
Pulse beats low, and eyes are glassy, and the death damp on his 

brow, 
Trembling, quivering, ah he's dying ! faintly gasps his fluttering 

breath. 
Struggling but a moment longer — Lazarus sleeps the sleep of 

death ! 

Oh, the dreadful truth, appalling ! " can it be that he is dead ? 
Are his eyes forever darkened ? has the vital spirit fled ? 
Will we hear his voice no longer ? will he cheer us nevermore ? 
Shall we never hear his footstep, treading o'er the cottage floor ? " 

" Would, the Master had been present ! " so the weeping sisters 

sighed, 
" Would, he could have known our sorrow, surely, Lazarus had 

not died. 
But alas ! too late ! 'tis over, Lazarus sleeps his final sleep ; 
We can but endure our sorrow, death but mocks the eyes that 

weep." 

Soon the weeping mourners gather, in the cottage of the dead ; 
Bethany is vailed in darkness, though the sun shines overhead ; 
Every heart has lost a loved one, every heart seems wrapped in 

gloom ; 
For the shining sun of Lazarus, suddenly goes down at noon. 



RESURRECTION OF LAZARUS. 131 

But despite affections twining, naught the precious life could save, 
Friends and neighbors kindly, gently, meet to bear him to his 

grave — 
Slowly moves the silent cortege, in the solemn sunset glow, 
Toward the grassy vale of Olives, where the olive blossoms blow. 

There in silence deep and painful, speechless grief and rayless 

gloom, 
Tenderly they bury Lazarus, deep within his rocky tomb ; 
Out of sight, yea, there forever, rest in peace his sleeping clay. 
Till Archangel's trump shall wake him, in the resurrection day — 

So the sad and weeping sisters, now retrace the dusty road, 
Heavy laden, faint with sorrow, to their desolate abode — 
Mary, Martha, who can fathom, all your depth of grief unknown ? 
All within your shaded cottage, speaks of that dear absent one- 
Lay away his well worn garments, place his sandals out of sight, 
Drape his couch in sombre mourning, where he lay but yester- 
night ; 
All the little sad mementoes, of his presence once so dear. 
Make his absence felt the keener, and as if he must be here. ' 

Tears come streaming down their faces, grief, in overpowering 

might, 
When remembering, brother Lazarus, sleeps within his grave 

to-night, 
Little do the weeping sisters, as they shed the burning tear. 
Dream they were so near the dawning, day of sweet relief so near. 

For the Master cometh, slowly ; ah, he knows the pressing need. 
He is touched with human sorrow, he can feel for hearts that 

bleed ; 
He has not forgotten loved ones, love's affection never dies ; 
So with calm and tender purpose, goes to dry the tearful eyes. 

Soon loved Martha hears his coming ; having crossed the Jordan's 

ford, 
And with eager, nervous footstep hastes to greet her coming Lord, 



132 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

Lo ! she sees him in the distance, in a moment more they meet — 
" Hail, dear Master !'* now exclaiming, Martha weeps at Jesus' 
feet. 

Joy and grief now strive for mastery, through her tears she meekly 

cried 
" Hadst thou but been here oh, Master, my dear brother had not.- 

died," 
"But I know what e'er thou asketh, even now, Godgiveth thee," — 
Jesus saith, "thy brother Lazarus, shall from bonds of death be 

free." 

Martha saith, " I know my brother, shall emerge from death's 

dark sway, 
In the resurrection morning, at the last great Judgment Day " — 
Jesus saith, in words majestic, calming her tumultuous strife, 
"Martha, Pm the resurrection, /am life, eternal life, 

Whosoe'er in me believeth, death his fatal blow may give, 
Yet my word shall stand forever ; though he die, yet shall he live. 
Whoso liveth and believeth in my word, shall never die ; 
Martha art thou this believing ? " — hear her high sublime reply — 

" Lord, I know Thou art the Annointed, Son of the eternal God, 
He whom Thine own word declareth, cometh to the earth 

abroad " — 
Wonderous words ! sublime confession ! thrilling every human 

soul — 
Like majestic waves of glory, let them surge from pole to pole. 

Till the earth submerged and covered, with the glory of the Lord, 
Shall be spanned by life and beauty, by the r.ainbow of his word ; 
Till the ruined race of Adam, everywhere the Christ adore. 
And confess him. Lord of glory, God eternal, evermore. 

With these words of peerless beauty, falling on the Master's ears, 
Martha hastes to call her sister, and to dry her bitter tears — 



RESURRECTION OF LAZARUS 133 

" Mary hasten, stay no longer, quickly rise and follow me, 
I've a message from the Master, He has come, and calls for 
thee "— 

Mary's heart at once responsive, bounds to hear the gladsome 

word, 
Quickly seeks the dusty highway, rushes out to meet her Lord — 
In the cottage friends are gathered, met to stay the tide of grief, 
Met to utter words of comfort, cheerful hope, and sweet relief. 

Lo ! they gaze in mute surmising, at the weeping Mary's haste — 
Quickly rising, now they follow, whither her sad footsteps traced. 
Ah ! said they, "she goeth yonder, in her sadness dark and deep ; 
Yonder in her lonely sorrow, at her brother's grave to weep " — 

Just beyond the quiet village, where her Lord and Martha met, 
Mary meets the loving Master, on the slope of Olivet ; 
There 'mid gushing tears of anguish, Mary falls at Jesus' feet. 
Waves of sorrow, dark and fearful, o'er her fainting spirit sweep. 

Gathering all her strength and courage, she breaks through the 

tearful tide — 
" Master, if thou hadst been present, brother Lazarus had not 

died ;" 
Then afresh the floods of sorrow, over every barrier breaks, 
Weeping multitudes surround her, weeping for the sisters' sakes. 

Jesus sees the touching picture, feels the melting current roll. 
Groans within his tender spirit, anguish heaves his troubled soul ; 
Till all o'er his riven spirit, waves of untold sorrow swept ; 
Till in speechless grief he gazes, till he, even Jesus, wept. 

" Jestis wept,'" stupendous marvel ! for the Son of God to weep — 
Who can measure love eternal ? Tell how high, how broad, how 

deep ? 
Far beyond the deepest sounding, far above the highest height, 
Jesus' love is far surpassing, baffling e'en an angel's might. 



134 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Yet amid the falling tear drops, unbelieving doubters' cry, 

" Could not he who healed the sightless, caused that Lazarus 

should not die ?" 
Ah ! how blind the skeptic's vision, bounded by his narrow sense, 
Darkness vails his devious pathway, darkness cheerless, cold and 

dense. 

But the Master groans in spirit ; cometh to the rocky cave — 

Lo ! a ponderous stone and weighty, seals the brother's lonely 

grave ; 
Hearken to the word of Jesus — " Take away the rugged stone " — 
Martha now with strange emotion, speaks in dread astounded tone. 

" By this time his body moulders, four days in the grave he lies " — 
Jesus looked with grief upon her, hears her word, in sad surprise. 
" Martha, are my words forgotten? did I not say unto thee, 
If thou wouldst believe my saying, God's own glory thou shouldst 
see?" 

Martha heeds the kind reproving, meekly bears the Master's word, 
Strong and quenchless her emotion, deeply all her soul was stirred ; 
Till in pensive thought and wonder, she and Mary seemed alone. 
Scarce the multitude perceiving, while they rolled away the stone. 

Now ensues a solemn silence, still as silent shades of death, 
Nothing dares disturb the stillness, scarcely e'en a heaving 

breath ; 
Nature strives to still her throbbing, leaf, nor tree, nor shrub is 

stirred, 
Rippling brook has ceased its murmur— gentle breeze and singing 

bird. 

All things seem to feel the presence, of the mighty Son of God ; 
All things wait the awful bidding, of his all-prevailing nod ; 
Petrified, the mute assemblage, stand as if on brink of doom. 
Swayed by strange mysterious impulse, welded to the dead man's 
tomb — 



RESURRECTION OF LAZARUS. 135 

Thus, while everywhere pervading, solemn hush and speechless 
awe, 

Jesus lifts his eyes to heaven, where the Father's face he saw — 
Praise majestic, pure and holy, rises to the Father's ear- 
When the Son eternal prayeth, God the Father yearns to hear. 

So the blessed Master prayeth, words of holy praise he spake. 
Words of faith and sweet assurance, uttered for the people's sake, 
Death and hell begin to tremble, shrink subdued and overawed. 
For the Master now prevaileth, as the truly sent of God. 

All the people stand confessing ; Christ alone is come to sav,e, 
He alone, hath power to grapple, Death, intrenched in Lazarus' 
gr-ave — 

Jesus plants his mighty footstep calmly in death's new cut swath, 
And with God-like voice he crieth, hear it ! " Lazariis come forth/" 

Quick as lightning flash, the shackles, snap asunder at the call, 
Ghastly death lets go his victim— stands aghast, in dread appall, 
Shrinks in hideous terror backward, flees before the conquering 
one. 

Hides himself in outer darkness, baffled, conquered, and undone. 

Lazarus hears the startling summons, the voice awakes the lifeless 
clay, 

The streams of life, at Jesus' bidding now resume their living sway — 
The sightless eye, the speechless lip ; the silent tongue, the beatless 
heart. 

The powerless brain, the hearless ear, all, into living action start. 

The rigid limbs begin to move, sight leaps into the glassy eye, 
And lo ! the man whom death had slain, sees death itself, beneath 

him die, — 
Up from his sepulchral bed, from out death's dark and dismal lair, 
Bound hand and foot, he bounds away, out into the living air. 

Jesus, Master, speaks again, — " Loose him, let him freely go," 
Cast off the insignia of death ; the tokens of a bitter woe ; — 
Behold the risen Lazarus ! the monster death protests in vain, 
Before the astounded multitude, he moves and acts and speaks 
again. 



136 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

Can this be he, do they exclaim ? they scarce believe what now 

they saw, 
Bewildered, speechless they appear, o'erwhelmed by strange 

mysterious awe, 
Martha, Mary, what emotion, must have thrilled your heaving 

breast, 
When your tender loving brother, once again your presence 

blest. 

When again his name you mention, and your hand in his you 

place, 
And'you saw the form so loving, and the dear familiar face, 
When within the little homestead, holy light and joy were spread, 
By the brother loved so dearly, truly risen from the dead. 

Heard his voice, and saw him smiling, saw the lustre of his eye. 
Oh ! what joy beyond expressing, o'er the reunited tie ; 
Lo ! within the humble cottage, what a glowing light was shed, 
By the brother mourned and buried, but now, risen from the dead. 

All throughout the little village, spread the tidings far and wide, 

Everywhere the people wondered, is this Lazarus that died ? 

Ah ! 'tis he, stupendous marvel 1 Lazarus lives and breathes 

again. 
Mingles with his weeping sisters, reunites the severed chain — 

Who is this whose word prevaileth ? whom no power can defeat, 
In whose presence Nature trembles, Death falls crouching at his 

feet? 
Who but speaks, and lo ! 'tis finished, naught can thwart his 

mighty word, 
'Tis the lowly Christ of Nazareth, truly, he is Christ the Lord! 

None but he can do such wonders, bid the dead arise and live, 
None but he the grave can conquer. Him eternal honors give ! 
He is worthy praise and glory. Him let men and angels laud. 
He is Christ the mighty Conqueror, He is Christ, the eterfiat God ! 



A SERMON FROM THE PEW. 137 



A SERMON V\^ON\ THE PEW. 

I HEARD a church bell's solemn tone, 
I entered ; 'twas a temple grand and fair, 
With sculptured arch and towering dome. 
Lifting a gilded cross in air. 

There, as I sat in a gaudy pew, 

With much to please and charm the eye, 
I watched the surging throng pass through 

The arching doorway, broad and high. 

Up the long aisles with haughty tread, 

'Mid rustling silks, they gaily poured ; 

There as I sat, I sighed and said, 
" Is this a temple of the Lord ? " 

Quickly, a strange mysterious spell. 
Suffused my soul with holy awe ; 

I heeded not the organ's swell, 

Nor ought of outward glamour saw. 

A still faint voice was all I heard. 

Floating o'er the cushioned pews ; 

Like seraph music fell the word, 

And gently, as the summer dews. 

Like heavenly whispers came the voice. 
So strangely sweet, so soft, so still ; 

How strange ! I saw not one rejoice, 
Nor heed the gentle Spirit's will. 

The thunder of the organ's peal. 

The pulpit's faultless, ornate tone. 

The worshipper's respectful zeal. 

The reverberating arch and dome, — 



138 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

All, all, in strange accord combine. 

To quench the tender Spirit's word ; 

"The still small voice" of love divine, 
The inner whisper of the Lord. 

The preacher e'en, seemed not to hear 
The sweet low whisper of that voice, 

But read his message loud and clear, 

In classic accents, learned and choice. 

His words, so eloquent and grand, 

Were like bouquets of artful bloom, 

Like flowers made by human hand. 
Like them, exhaling no perfume. 

The warbling voices of the choir. 

The measured chant and faultless song, 

Were echoes as from golden lyre, 

Swaying the giddy listless throng. 

An all-pervading, dazzling awe 

Seemed weaving a strangely mystic spell ; 
Hushing the thunders of the Law,' 

And hiding the judgment glare of hell, — 

Making wide, the low strait gate, 
Making broad, the narrow way ; 

Glossing the sinner's awful state, 

And shading the Gospel's shining ray, — 

Covering the serpent's slimy trail, 

With rosy hue and glittering gloss ; 

Making the Word, a fairy tale, 

A solemn mockery, the cross ; — 

Robbing the gleam from the Master's tear, 
Mocking the griefs and pains he met ; 

Blunting the point of soldier's spear, 

Spurning the Master's bloody sweat, — 



A SERMON FROM THE PEW. 139 

Stifling his agonizing cry, 

Meaningless, his dying groan ; 
" Eloi, Lama, Sabaclhani .'" 

Bereft of power to atone ! 

Is this, thought I, the pulpit's voice. 

That rings aloft the cushioned pews ? 
An empty call, a doubtful choice, 

A care-not, what to hear or choose ? 

Nay ! 'tis the voice of a worldly church, 

A gospel clad in garb of death. 
Void its hope, and vain the search 

To find herein a living breath. 

'Tis a gilded tomb, a whited grave. 

No life, no vital hope is there : 
No strength to lift, no power to save. 

No heaven-reaching sigh or prayer — 

" ' Tis Christ! 'tis Christ!" again I heard 

The Spirit's eager anxious search. 
Up from the pews, the startling word, 

Falls upon the drowsy church. 

Preach Christ ! preach Christ ! all else is vain, 

Not for the world's approving nod ; 
The world by learning, fame or gain. 

By wisdom, knows not, finds not God. 

The gaudy form, the flowery speech, 

Are phantoms void of living breath ; 
Powerless, guilty souls to reach ; 

Shadows cold and dark as death. 

Preach Christ ! be this the ringing word, 

That flames from every pulpit dome ; 
The glory of the risen Lord, 

The message from the Father's throne — 



I40 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

Turn back ! oh faltering church, turn back ! 

Where once thy blazing altar stood ; 
There find the grand old beaten track, 

Marked by Jesus' hallowed blood. 

Awake ! awake ! preach Christ the Lord, 
None other name save his, is true — 

This is " the still small voice " I heard, 
The whispered sermon of the pew. 



TO MY Wire. 

MAY 2, 1889. 

OH, how the time flies, eleven years to-day ! 
Since thee and I stood side by side, one sunny day in May, 
The birds chirped in the blossoming trees, all nature sighed to 

bless. 
While thee and I, with hand in hand, so sweetly whispered "yes." 

Can we forget its fragrant air, the smiling May-day sun. 

When heaven touched our throbbing hearts and made them beat 

as one ? 
Ah, no ! the sunshine of that wedding day, shall keep our hearts 

aglow, 
And love shall smile as tenderly, as in the years ago. 

Eleven years ! what changes, love, have floated o'er the lea. 
Yet, still, a favoring providence, remembers thee and me, 
'Mid heaping cares and flight of days, beside our treading feet. 
Have grown love's dewy blossoms fair, so fragrant and so sweet — 

We dare not doubt kind heaven's wish, to grant a favored boon, 
For did not heaven drop a smile, one rosy day in June ? 
And stamp it on a little face, and gild a childish eye, 
To give us cheer for duty now, and comfort by and by ? 



" LINDENSHADE'' 141 

Ah yes ! a childish face my love, adorned by Nature's art, 
To us, 'tis like an ivy vme entwining 'round our heart, 
Let us with reverent love adore, the hand that p^ave us this, 
Not only as a proffered smile, but heaven' s sweetest kiss. 

So then my love, as up we climb, life's steep and rugged way, 
We'll hold each other by the hand, through every passing day, 
For high upon the lofty peak of life's ascending slope. 
We'll pluck the roses of our love ; the fruitage of our hope — 

Yea, time may turn thy raven locks, and mine, to silver gray, 
And Autumn winds may sigh and kiss thy rosy cheeks away ; 
But love ; to thee I fain would breathe this pure unsullied truth, 
Thy love has wreathed around my heart, the evergreen of youth. 



"LINDENSHADE." 



The beautiful residence of Amy H. Fell, New London, Chester 
County, Penna. 



SAFE nestled among New London's hills, 
Her sunny vales and laughing rills, 
'Mid leafy grove and grassy glade, 

Stands charming " Lindenshade." 

The blight that fell on Eden's plain. 
And blurred its beauty with a stain. 
Left one pure spot where beauty strayed ; 
'Twas lovely "Lindenshade." 

Without, when wintry tempests sweep. 
Nature finds here a rosy seat, 
Where summer flowers never fade ; 
'Tis balmy "Lindenshade." 



142 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Here robins sing their morning lay, 

And sunbeams strew sweet bloom of May — 

Is there a spot whose fragrant shade 

Compares with "Lindenshade? " 

Nay ! for e'en the lowing herd, . 
The cooing dove — the singing bird, 
The gleeful song of the milking maid. 
Makes merry " Lindenshade." 

In lovely Spring, when brooklets sing. 
And blossoming woods their odors fling, 
'Tis then, 'mid dazzling hues arrayed 
Smiles rosy " Lindenshade." 

When summer spreads her warming glow. 
And babbling brooklets, murmur low ; 
When reapers glean the golden blade, 
How cool, fair "Lindenshade." 

When Autumn crowns the ripened sheaf. 
And paints with gold the yellow leaf; , 
And the last sweet rose in death is laid, 

'Tis summer yet at " Lindenshade." 

When winter's tempest fierce and loud. 
Wraps nature in her snowy shroud, 
In vain, the Frost King dares invade 
The vales of " Lindenshade." 

Who shall describe its home-like air. 
Its wealth of smiles, its kindly care ? 
" Home, sweet Home " — a mother's aid 
Makes peaceful "Lindenshade." 

Long live thy charms ! fair "Lindenshade," 
Kind heaven smiled, and thou wast made — 
On thee, may God's best gifts be laid. 
On thee, fair " Lindenshade." 



REBECCA C. SPEARMAN'S 75th BIRTH-DAY. 143 



REBKCA C SPEAKMAN'5 75th BIPTH-DAY. 

?^pWAS Eighteen-fifteen, Fourth month twelfth, 

I When spring-time sun brought health and wealth 
To the waking earth, in its morning hours, 
Strewing the fields with springtime flowers ; 
'Twas then, when the dew-drops glistening gem 
Like diamonds, lay on hill and glen, 
A little stranger's voice was heard. 
Blending with song of bee and bird, 
This the song it deigned to sing — 
" I come, to greet the blossoming spring" — 

The ever varying years roll on, 
And still is heard the sweet spring song ; 
The merry laugh, the childish play, 
Like ever opening buds of May, 
Scattering fragrance here and there, 
And making summer everywhere ; 
Gathering daisies by the brook, 
Sporting in the shady nook. 
Rambling through the leafy wood — 
Such is Childhood, pure and good. 

Still, the years go rolling on. 

And sterner grows the spring-time song — 

Standing on life's higher slope. 

The warm heart throbs with firmer hope, 

No longer buds the flowers seem. 

The fields put on a deeper green. 

The balmy air at times is chill ; 

Life seems now, an ascending hill, 



144 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Up which we climb with wearied step, 
But dare not cease our steppings yet. 

The years now seem, to rush along. 

With scarcely time, to sing a song, 

The days seemed burdened with a care, 

And duty bids us do and dare, 

While Faith, and Hope, and Trust, and Fear, 

Drops here and there a smile, a tear. 

And prickly briar, and thorny rose, 

So strangely in our pathway grows. 

Till startled, we cry out — " How soon ! 

We've reached the sunny peak of noon." 

And now, the dial plate of time, 
Reveals the year's meridian line. 
The sultry sun's intenser ray, 
Proclaims mid-summer's harvest day, 
And standing 'mid the ripening grain. 
Matured by summer's sun and rain. 
We reap the fields that we have sown 
With seeds of hope, and toil unknown, 
And musing on the labor's cost, 
We seek the gain or count the lost. 

But ah, we dare not muse too long. 

Life has still a hopeful song. 

Thou hast reached the sunny height. 

Whose fruitful hill-top, bathed in light. 

Glows, beneath thy resting feet, 

And Earth and Heaven seem to meet — 

Three score and ten and five, entwine 

Sweet flowers, untouched by frost and time, 

Love takes up the sweet bouquet. 

And lays it at thy feet to-day. 

Though years have come and sped away. 
Thou art not old, though sprinkled gray 



MY MO THER 'S GARDEN. 145 

Hath touched thee h"ghtly, and thy step 
Still bears a youthful vigor yet — 
We breathe for thee, a silent prayer, 
That Heaven's kindest love may spare 
To thee, sweet years of favored bliss, 
And joys not born in worlds like this — 
And when Earth's sun shall cease to shine, 
A Mansion with the blest, be thine ! 



MY MOTHER'S GARDEN. 

IT seems a long long time ago, since I, a bare-foot boy. 
Trod out the little garden paths with such delightsome joy ; 
While Mother dropped the tiny seed, the speckled bean and corn, 
Ere yet the dew was kissed away, one sunny April morn. 

Sweet mem'ry takes me back again to that long vanished day ; 
Since then I've changed my sunny curls to thinning locks of gray, 
My life seems like a fairy dream— a bridge of golden threads. 
O'er which I pass and tread again, the dear old garden beds. 

Mother's garden ! lovely spot, 'twas like perennial June, 
I breathe in thought its fragrant air ; the elysium of its bloom ; 
I tread once more the enchanted ground as in my childhood hours. 
And hold again, in mem'ry's grasp, its sweet and dewy flowers — 

Here was the little Salad bed, there sweet Cowslips grew, 
Yonder the little blades of Corn, drank in the sparkling dew ; 
Here the yellow Marigold— and dear old fashioned Pink, 
That grew along the garden walk, close to its sheltering brink. 

I see them yet — " Forget-me-nots," and " Canterbury Bell," 
And bright hued " Lady Slippers " — my Mother loved so well, 



146 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Sweet " Lilacs " — stately " Hollyhocks " that grew so straight and 

tall, 
Down where " Morning Glories " kissed the gray old garden wall. 

"Sweet Williams," fragrant breath perfumed, the summer's 

sweltering air, 
And " Lillies " nod a welcome glance to Tulips blushing fair. 
And bright blue Lockspurs gently bow, down where the Daisies 

grew. 
And whisper gracefully and smile, the live-long summer through. 

Spanning the gravelly garden walk, o'er the lattice work so quaint, 
The lovely Moss Rose bloomed and blushed, in charming un- 
restraint. 
While intertwining leaf and twig, and mossy buds of Pink, 
Sweet Honeysuckles sipped the dew, and bade the Roses drink — 

Skirting the prickly Hawthorn-hedge, like flame crowned Knights 

of old. 
Gaudy Sunflowers flashed and waved their shining crowns of 

gold— 
But that which stirred my childish breast with strange mysterious 

thrill. 
Was Mother's tiny Sensitive plant upon the window sill — 

But ah ! how swift my roguish feet, when the grass was wet with 

dew, 
Would stroll in blissful haste to where, the ruddy Currants grew, 
My merry shout and laughing glee were songs of sweetest chord, 
For Mother's garden seemed indeed, a Paradise restored. 

'Twas just inside the garden gate, to her a favored spot. 
Where grew the old-time Balsam and fragrant Bergomot, 
Sweet balm for mortal ills and aches endowed with healing wealth, 
Which by my Mother's gentle touch possessed the charm of health^ 

Lovely garden ! oh how fair, how rich its magic soil. 

Its flowering beauties nodded thanks to her unwearied toil— 



AN EPITAPH. 



147 



Woe to the ill unlucky weed, that sought its nectared air, 

Or dared coquette with e'en the tiniest floweret blooming there. 

Indeed it seemed sun, moon and star, the sky, the earth, the air, 
In solemn unison conspired, to scatter beauty there, 
'Twas her delight from balmy spring, to summer's rosy hue, 
Through autumn's mellow russet tide, till wintry tempests blew. 

But ah, alas ! long years have gone, e'en Mother is no more, 
She treads the gold-paved garden walks, upon the emerald shore — 
From childhood down to gray old age, this thought sweet memory 

stirs. 
To me there is no garden spot, so beautiful as hers. 



AN EPITAPH. 



Written upon my father's Grave. 



ONLY the ruined casket lies here beneath this sod 
The gem, the soul, the spirit, rests with God — 
An Angel came one dark and dreary day. 
And plucked it from the clay in which it lay. 
Death sought in vain to find the sparkling gem — 
Lo ! there it shines, in Jesus' diadem. 



THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



ANATOMY OT ALCOHOL 

OH Alcohol ! thou child of Satan's breath, 
Where e'er thy fetid breath prevails, there is the stench of 

death, 
Whereon thy slimy touch is laid, there comes the leprous spot. 
Thy breath upon the human soul entails eternal rot. 
Nothing too sacred or too pure, to escape thy fiendish ire. 
Thy very footprint bears the odor, of hell's consuming fire. 
Thy brood is Murder — Theft and Crime — tears, bitterness and woe. 
Grief, anguish, poverty and death, and Satan's fiery glow, 
Thou hast a heart — 'tis black with hate, it bears no kindly throb, 
Thou hast a hand — 'tis stained with blood and trained to kill and 

rob. 
Thou hast a tongue — its poisoned fangs are Satan's sting of death, 
Thou hast an ear — but canst not hear thy victim's faintest breath, 
Thou hast an eye — but canst not see, for blackness reigns within ; 
Thou hast a brain — but all its force is spent to foster sin : 
Thou hast a foot — thou treadest down the helpless and the weak, 
Thou hast a name — too horrible for mortal tongue to speak. 
Oh Alcohol, thou Child of hell ! heaven and earth combine, 
To hurl thee downward to the pit, into thy native clime, 
For oh, thou vilest fiend of fiends — thou goest to and fro, 
With ceaseless rage to fill the pit — the fiery pit of woe. 



UP IN AN A TTIC. 1 49 



UP IN AN ATTIC 

INTO the gloom of the pestilent air, 
Of a narrow court in a crowded square, 
Up a rickety stair to an attic loft, 
Where never a sunbeam, warm and soft 
Came in to cheer the bleak abode, 
With its glow of strength, to lift the load 
Of weary, wasting days of pain, 
And gild the eye with hope again — 
On a pallet of straw a sufferer lay, 
While slowly the life-tide ebbed away — 
With a quickening pulse and a heavy breath, 
A glimpse of the shadowy river of death 
Breaks into view, o'er the misty plain, 
And the sufferer forgets for a moment her pain — 
" Yonder ! " — (she lifts her thin pale hand), 
"I see the green hills of the sunlit land, 
" Listen ! I hear the harpers play 
" On their Golden harps, in white array. 
" They beckon to me, I hear them call, 
" While the pearly gate in the Jasper wall 
" Swings back on its hinges — lo ! I behold, 
" The glittering domes, and the streets of gold — 
" Mother ! I see thy beauteous face, 
" Strange, I see no wrinkled trace 
" Of age or sorrow, how pure thy form ! 
" When I saw thee last, thou wast anguish torn, 
" Bitter the load on thy stricken years ; 
" Thy loving eyes were filled with tears — 
" Where are they now ? Ah, wiped away ! 
"Thou saidst they would, in Heaven, some day "- 
The sufferer woke — she had only dreamed. 
Yet so real the enchanting vision seemed. 



ISO THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

A tear coursed down her pallid cheek, 

As she gazed on the walls so bare and bleak, 

And faintly blending a whisper and sigh 

She murmured—" must I come back to die ?" — 

Just then, a knock at the door was heard, 

It slowly opened— then a greeting word, 

A stranger entered the desolate room, 

His very mien dispersed the gloom ; 

With a gentle grasp of the withered hand, 

His tender look like a magic wand 

Exhaled sweet sympathetic bliss, 

Into the depths of the dark abyss — 

A rainbow spanned the vale of woe. 

And tinged the gloom with a golden glow. 

And heaven descends with a fragrant air, 

And plants a Throne of Mercy there. 

The creviced walls and broken panes, 

Where the wintry winds and beating rains, 

Surged through with devastating breath ; 

Withering and cold and bleak as death. 

Seemed all transfigured into bliss. 

While on the thin pale face, a kiss 

By unseen Angel lips impressed. 

Left a rosy glow on a face distressed — 

But the stranger left a kind " Good bye " — 

'Twas like sweet manna from the sky— 

The empty larder sang his praise 

With echoing notes of gladsome lays. 

And passing down the rickety stair. 

He met the Master standing there. 

In still small voice He spake— said he — 

"I was sick and ye visited me " — 

" I was sick, and ye sought my attic door. 

Friendless— helpless— homeless — poor," 

" As ye've done it unto the least," said he, 

" E'en so, ye have done it unto me." 



''LET YOUR LIGHT SHINE. " 151 



"LET YOUR LIGHT SHINE." 

MATT. V: 16. 

' I ET your light shine," brother, hear it, 
L Do not hide its feeble flame. 
Let it shine for all who near it. 

Radiant with the Saviour's name ; 
Down upon thy pathway beaming. 

Beauteous ray and streaming love. 
Like the Holy Spirit's gleaming, 

Shining downward from above. 

" Let your light shine," brother, hearken, 

'Tis the candle of the Lord, 
Do not quench its rays, nor darken. 

This dear message of His word. 
Earth is dark, and souls are groping. 

Vainly seeking for the light. 
Longing for the faintest hoping, 

'Mid the darkness of the night. 

'.'Let your light shine," brother, hear it. 

Though it be the feeblest spark. 
Some there are, perchance now, near it. 

May be rescued from the dark. 
Let your Lamp be trimmed and burning, 

'Mid the world's surrounding gloom, 
'Mid its griefs and bitter yearning. 

Light, to life beyond the tomb. 



152 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 



CHICHESTER ERI ENDS' MEETING HOUSE. 

IN the old Meeting House he sat alone and still,* 
A tear coursed down his pallid, sunken cheek, 
A straying sunbeam quivered on the rough-hewn sill,. 
Then flashed across the floor, a shining streak. 

Not a voice was heard — not e'en a heaving breath, 

To stir the solemn silence of the scene, 
A stillness reigned, 'twas like the hush of death. 

Was it the wierd fantasy of a dream ? 

Vainly the old man strove his vision to distrust. 

The mildewed walls, festooned by spider's web ; 

The empty benches, clad in shrouds of dust, 
And the lonely aisle, gave no familiar tread. 

There is the dear old path, with briared weeds o'ergrown ; 

Yonder the roofless sheds, here the unsightly door. 
The broken panes, through which the sad winds moan 

And sigh, in ghostly whisperings, evermore. 

Aye ! the voiceless sleepers in the old church-yard hard by 

Are scarce so silent in their dusty caves. 
As the spectral phantoms that flit before his eye. 

Like hazy troops, athwart these desert graves. 

"Ah,." thought he, " Where are they?" He brushed aside a 
tear, 

He slept, he dreamed — the long years backward fly, 
When lo ! as if by magic, shadowy groups appear, 

The seats are filled, forgotten ones draw nigh. 

* Suggested by an item concerning the desolated condition of old Chichester 
Friends' Meeting House, and the remarkable fidelity of a Friend, who reverent- 
ly and alone still clings to the sacred ruin. " Ichabod " cannot be written over 
the doorway of the temple while one such loyal soul remains to honor it. 



CHICHESTER FRIENDS' MEETING HOUSE. 153 

A misty form arose, with thin hand pointing high, 
" Brother," said he, " Be mindful of the Hght ;" 

" Walk in the truth, while the days are going by," 
The preacher paused, then vanished out of sight. 

The old man woke, in strange, bewildered gaze. 

Like one upon a wreck amid the gale ; 
While mad waves dash, and the howling tempest plays, 

And he alone survives to tell the tale — 

Whence came this storm, who saw this cloud arise. 
This mad cyclone that swept away the flock ? 

Did shepherd sleep amid portentious skies 

Unmindful of the storm-clouds' gathering shock ? 

But ah ! they've gone, the sheep-folds shattered wall, 
Shelterless it lies, a low and ruined scene ; 

The bleating lambs hear not the shepherd's call. 
To gently lead them into meadows green. 

Or down where living fountains cool the sweltering air. 
When sultry heats lie scorching on the plain ; 

Or when the snowy blast lays field and forest bare, 
To gather in the tender lambs again. 

Hearken ? oh ye shepherds, deep in the rocky glen ; 

'Mid thorny thickets tangled, ready to die : 
The lost sheep wander, begirt by marshy fen. 

Go, seek them, life is short, the night draws nigh — 

Ah ! faithful friend so brave, so loyal to thy God, 
Though all draw back, thou remainest true ; 

The narrow path which thou so long hast trod, 
Is not less dear, though trodden but by few. 

Stand fast, true friend, one humble man with God 

Is in himself a host no foe can beat ; 
A living church is he, whom angels laud, 

And men shall yet cast garlands at thy feet. 



154 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



MY MOTHER'S HAND. 

LET me kiss ray mother's hand, 
So motionless and still it lies ; 
The monster Death, waved his dark wand, 
And lo ! he sought to claim the prize, 
Nay ! nay ! oh Death ! they are not thine. 
Those lovely loving hands are mine- 
Mute before her form I stand, 
Eager to kiss, my Mother's hand. 

Those loving hands ! Alas ! 'tis hard. 
To lay them 'neath the cold damp sod. 
Hid in the gloom of the old Church yard, 
Save to the sleepless eye of God. 
Yet here 'mid weepings, I resign 
Reverently, I take those hands in mine. 
And count it an exquisite bliss. 
To print on them my warmest kiss. 

Those loving hands ! how true to me. 

How oft in childhood's fleeting hours, 

One gentle touch — my path would be 

Bestrewn with choicest summer flowers. 

A magic spell, a charm was theirs. 

An answer to my childish prayers ; 

What e'er they touched, were charmed with bliss- 

On them I press my truest kiss. 

In helpless infancy"! lay, 

A fragile thing, a vapory breath, 

A puff" of air might blow away. 

Or quench in chilling waves of death, 

Had not a Mother's sheltering hand. 

Held day and night Love's magic wand — 



ONE YEAR OF REST. 155 

Unbounded joy — the memory ! 

Of those dear hands that sheltered me. 

In sterner manhood's toilsome day, 
How sweet a mother's loving aid, 
Life's burdens seemed to melt away. 
When on my brow, her hands were laid. 
And duty's task in her dear name. 
Gave life a truer, nobler aim. 
What e'er of good I may command, 
I owe to my dear Mother's hand. 

Oh lovely hand ! though wrinkled, thin, 
Bearing the stamp of rugged years. 
Tenderly fold therh, loving they've been. 
Fondly I kiss them, 'mid my tears. 
Lovingly lay them o'er the still breast, 
An angel hath written upon them, " Rest," 
Though I grasp them no more in life's dark even, 
Dear Mother, I'll kiss them again in heaven. 



ONE YEAR or REST. 

ONE year of rest to-day, dear Mother, one year to-day, 
Since in the cold, cold grave, thy loved form we laid ; 
Since we pressed the last fond kiss upon thy lips of clay, 
And followed thee to the vale of the shadowy glade ; 
Since I took thy dear hand in mine and kissed a sad " Good bye! " 
And marveled, that one so dear, should die. 

One year to-day, we stood by thy grave and wept. 
To think that we should see thy face no more. 

One year has passed, the wintry storms have swept 

In fury by, and heedless of the rude tempest's roar, 

And yet there comes to us a murmur soft and sweet — 
Weep not, " For so he giveth his beloved sleep." 



156 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

One year, we've missed thee around the family board, 

One year of absence, lonely, sad and drear. 
One year, love's Harp, missing its sweetest chord, 

Has borne no music, only a falling tear. 
We cannot hear the music which on heavenly breezes float. 

But the golden harps of heaven have caught the missing note. 

One year, the cosy chamber, so lately thine, 

The old arm chair, thy couch of soft repose, 
Have all been vacant— a speechless pang is mine, 

As 'mid the sacred relics my grief o'erflows. 
One year, thy presence Mother, to me hath been denied. 

One year from thee, dear Mother, one year from thy dear side. 

One year, we've seen thee not, nor heard thy gentle step, 
Thy dear familiar voice greets not our listening ear. 

Yet ever and anon we seem to hear thee yet ; 

We vainly listen, a spirit echoes, " thy mother is not here !" 

A wierd faint whisper, lurks in the shadowy even, 

A year of tears to us, to thee — one year in heaven. 

One year of rest, one year of sweet repose. 

One year's release from pain, from grief and tears ; 

One year unharmed by earth's mysterious woes. 

Untouched by time, undimmed by flight of years. 

One year's repose upon a bed of clay ; 

The Casket only, the Gem, the Lord hath borne away. 



T^O YEARS OF ABSENCE. 157 



TWO YEARS or ABSENCE. 

Two YEARS ! Dear Mother, to-day two years, 
Since gentle sleep closed thy tearful eyes ; 
Since peaceful slumber came, and hushed thy fears, 
And bade, begone ! thy sorrows and thy sighs. 
And angels whispered at set of sun, 
"Thy toil is done." 

Two years ! Dear Mother, how swift they've gone, 

It seems but yester-eve since thou saidst " Good night," 

And in the closing day, into the misty dawn, 

We saw thee vanish, from our tear-dimmed sight ; 

But ah, we heard a voice — " Aged Pilgrim sleep," 

" No more to weep." 

Two years ! Dear Mother, although we see thee not, 

Although we hear thee not, thy hand we grasp no more, 

Yet thy pure spirit lives, where comes no earthly blot. 
Amongst the white-robed, upon a deathless shore ; 

Mother, when our Lord shall come, in the rending air, 

We'll meet thee there. 

Two years ! Dear Mother, two years of peaceful sleep — 
Oh, would the night were spent ! Speechless we stand 

Here at thy vacant couch, we list, we weep. 

We wait to hear — " The morning is at hand," 

" Awake ! Awake ! See, the opening skies !" 

" Arise ! Arise !" 

Two years! Yea, though a thousand years should intervene," 
The morning surely cometh, so my Lord hath said. 

Death is not death to thee, only a short sweet dream, 
A restful sleep, upon a painless bed. 

Guarded by the Lord's own hand, till he shall say — 

"Awake, 'tis day." 



158 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



THE nONUMENT OF CHARLES WESLEY/' 

THOU man of God ! thy fame shall stand, 
Immortal, as the stars that blaze ; 
In every age, in every land, 

For thee, there is no end of days, 
Thy name shall live, thy lustre shine. 

While the eternal ages roll ; 
The sweetest song of earth is thine ! — 
"Jesus, Lover of My Soul." 

Where e'er a human heart shall beat ; 

Where e'er a bitter tear shall fall — 
When angry billows lave our feet. 

And fears affright, and griefs appall ; 
'Tis then the music of this song, 

From golden harp-strings seems to roll. 
Like echoes from the blood-washed throng — 

"Jesus, Lover of My Soul." 

When pulse beats low, and fading eye, 

Shall whisper silently of death ; 
When loved ones softly say — " Good bye," 

Amid the flutterings of my breath — 
Father ! I crave one only thing, 

My life's delight, my dying goal, 
My chosen farewell song to sing — • 

"Jesus, Lover of My Soul." 



* Charles Wesley seems to be the Divinely inspired Hymn Writer of the 
Church Militant. That remarkable Hymn— "Jesus, Lover of My Soul "— 
the property of the universal Church of Christ, shining out like a gem of ever 
increasing brilliancy, is a monument of perpetual grandeur to his memory. 

The Rev. Henry Ward Beecher is reported as having said he would rather 
have written the hymn beginning "Jesus, Lover of My Soul," than to have the 
fame of all the kings that ever sat upon a throne. 



ON DEATH OF REV. DR. WM. NEWTON. 159 

Oh, man of God ! thou didst not dream, 

When, from, as 'twere a Seraph's pen, 
There fell a song whose lofty theme, 

Shall thrill for aye, the sons of men. 
A monument, not made with hands. 

And brightening as the ages roll ; 
Forever singing as it stands — 

"Jesus, Lover of My Soul." 



On the Death or Rev. Dr. William Newton. 



" He glveth His beloved sleep."— P^^/w cxxvii : 2. 



T 



HE toilsome day is o'er, 'tis set of sun ; 
The field is reaped, the toiler's work is done. 
The golden grain lies heavy where it fell. 
The night winds sweep with solemn surging swell. 
Low whisperings are heard — Rest thee, cease to reap. 
Lie down ! " He giveth His beloved sleep." 

The sunset sky rfeflects a hue untold, 

As if from jasper walls and streets of gold ; 

A gentle rustle, the evening zephyrs bear, 

As if the white-winged angels hovered in the air. 

Hark ! they sing — Reaper cease to reap, 

Lie down !— " He giveth His beloved sleep." 

The weary toiler rests, the day's full task is sealed, 
The glittering sickle drops upon the stubbled field ; 
The heavenly garner swings wide its pearly door. 
And angels wait to greet the ripe, rich store. 
The weary reaper rests, while down the shining steep 
Is echoed—" He giveth His beloved sleep." 



i6o THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

What were the years but rugged fields of toil, 

In which to plant, to sow ; to enrich the hardened soil ; 

To guard the vine and shield the tender blade 

From scorching sun, or winter's blighting shade? 

The harvest came, the reaper ceased to reap. 

'Tis well — ^" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

He lieth down to sleep— seraphic light 

Streams o'er his couch, strange glories gild the night ; 

Angelic music and odors of heavenly bloom. 

Like wafted breezes, flood the good man's room ; 

Shadowy forms of loved ones o'er his vision sweep. 

And whisper — " He giveth His beloved sleep." 

Oh, blessed sleep ! how soft the slumbering senses steal away ; 

How gently fades the light of life's short day. 

Sleep on ! the morning cometh, the night will soon be gone, 

E'en now the " Day Star " gilds the rising dawn ; 

When lo ! from out the shadows, strangely dark and deep, 

The Lord's beloved shall awake from sleep. 



A BOUQUET or TEARS. 



To MY DEPARTED MOTHER. 



NO flowering bloom have I dear Mother to-day, 
In holy reverence on thy tomb to lay 
Stern winter, with his cold and icy breath, 
Hath laid on shrub and flower, the heavy dew of death. 
Still, this I have, though born of saddened years, 
A richer gift, — a sweet bouquet of tears. 

I lay this, dearest Mother, on thy lonely mound. 
Fresh gathered from my heart's most holy ground. 



A BOUQUET OF TEARS. 

Culled from the garden of my soul's divines! bloom 
Steeped in the breath of heaven— I lay this on thy tomb, 
Perfumed with love, the growth of hallowed years. 
My purest gift, — a sweet bo2iquet of tears. 

Ah yes ! dear absent Mother, I stand beside thy grave. 
My trembling feet, lashed with death's cold wave. 
Yet, in my hand I bear, unsullied, sweet and pure. 
The ermine rose of Hope, whose fragrance shall endure 
To scent thy grave, through all my saddened years 
With dewy faith — a sweet bouquet of tears. 

Flowers of Faith and Love, dear fadeless " Immortelles " 
'Mid sighing winds, they seem like heaven's bells. 
Their sparkling petals illume the sad night's gloom. 
And fling a heavenly halo o'er thy silent tomb. 
Mother ! let flowers fail me, all my saddened years. 
This fails thee not, — a sweet bouquet of tears. 

In this is clustered, all my thought of thee. 

Sweet memories, sweet smiles, tears and prayers for me, 

Thy loving life, thy holy calm in death, 

Imparts the fragrance of immortal breath. 

Dear Mother ! the purest joy of all my passing years 

Is on thy tomb to lay, my sweet bouquet of tears. 



i62 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



I 5SY UNTO YOU, WATCH." 

Mark xiii : 37. 

WATCH, for the Lord's appearing, 
Watch, for the morning ray ; 
Watch, for the dawn is nearing. 

Watch, for the coming day ;• 
Watch, for the night is waning ; 

Dark though its shadows are ; 
Watch for the day's proclaiming. 

Watch, for the " Morning Star." 

Watch for the dawn of the morning ; 

Blest are the watching ones ; 
Watch, for the Bride's adorning, 

Watch, for the " Bridegroom " comes ; 
Watch, let thy lamp be burning, 

Watch, for the " Midnight cry," 
Watch for the Lord's returning. 

Watch, for the morn is nigh. 

Watch, for the night is passing. 

Watch for the promised day ; 
Jesus' love surpassing. 

Clears the mists away ; 
Watch, though the night wears slowly, 

Watch through its sombre gloom, 
Watch, for the Lord most holy. 

Comes to claim his own. 

Watch, though the night be dreary. 
List for the Lord's command. 

What though the night be weary, 
Day dawn is at hand — 



THE HUMAN FLEA. 163 

Still, as the night dew falling, 

Silent to the fleshly ear ; 
List, for the Bridegroom's calling, 

Watch, for the Lord is near. 

Watch, for His blessed appearing. 

Watch, for the Judgment glare ; 
Watch, for the day-dawn nearing, 

Watch, for the Lord in the air ; 
Watch, for the signal hour, 

Watch, for the given word. 
Watch, for he comes with power, 

Even so, come, blessed Lord. 



THE HUMAN TLEA. 



'' Mankind are fleas, ready to bite and to be bitten." — Anon. 



BRING forth your microscopes, my friends, 
Of every power, grade and strength. 
And let us view the odds and ends. 

Of human kind, in scope and length. 

The air is full of human fleas. 

They buzz and bite the live-long day ; 
In winter's cold and summer's breeze. 

They lie in wait for human prey. 

With unhelped vision as we gaze. 

We scarce discern their varied hues ; 

Their mystic habits, darksome ways. 
The wisest Philosophers confuse. 



i64 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

We place a species of this flea, 

Beneath the microscopic glass ; 
And lo ! what mysteries we see, 

The view extorts a sad alas ! 

Alas ! that fleas endowed with sense, 
With all the pomp and gift of mind ; 

With marvel of intelligence : 

Should live to vex their kindred kind. 

But, such the magic glass reveals, 

We scan the wonderous object o'er : 

We penetrate its glittering scales. 
And find but little to adore. 

Through folds of silken robes we pry, 

Through gloss and glare and might untold ; 

Through smiles, that gild the laughing eye ; 

Through haughty pride, and wealth of gold. 

Through vain conceit, and self-renown, 
Through lofty mien and tinselry ; 

Through beggar's rags or Kingly crown. 
The glass reveals that self-same flea. 

Ah ! Well, with Scotland's bard, we too 
May crave to own that inward sight, 

To see ourselves, as others do, 

And thus be freed from ugly blight. 

We'd have no avarice to appease ; 

We'd fear no microscopic ken. 
We'd lay aside the garb of fleas, 

And wear the nobler stamp of men. 



QUESTIONS ANSWERED. 165 



QUESTIONS ANSWERED. 

WHAT is life ? a smile, a sigh, 
A glistening tear drop in the eye ? 
A throb, a wish, a hope, a breath, 
A dread, a quenchless fear of death ? 
A meteor flashing in the sky ? 
A vapor quickly passing by ? 
A stir amongst the leafy trees ? 
An atom borne upon the breeze ? 
A dream, that ever mocketh me ? 
A wavelet on a heaving sea ? 
A shining bubble near the shore ? 
That floats, then sinks to rise no more ? 

I gaze into the voiceless sky, 

I ask the winds as they sweep by, 

I bend my ear to depths and height, 

No answer comes to cheer my night. 

Where e'er I list, there's no reply. 

Unbroken silence mocks my cry, 

Oh tell me if thou canst, I pray, 

What is life, a taunting play? — 

What is death ? a pang, a chill ? 

A heart beat, then forever still ? 

A clammy sweat, a gasp for breath ? 

A tremor, then a clutch with death ? 

A spasm, a convulsive throe ? 

An icy clasp, a fright of woe ? 

A voiceless lip, a glazing eye ? 

A parting glance, a cold good bye ? 

A flight into a rayless cloud ? 

A starless night, a grave, a shroud ? 

Oh what is death, a monster's thrust ? 

"Ashes to ashes," " Dust to dust ?" 



i66 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

A hideous crumbling into gloom ? 
A wakeless slumber in the tomb ? 
Oh, what is death, I ask again ? 
I seek an answer, but in vain, 
I've sought among the haunts of men. 
Where learning wields its mightiest pen, 
Above the heaving of my breath. 
There's but the echo— what is death ? 
Earth, air and sky, disdain my plea, 
All, all refuse, to answer me. 
Perplexed, I raise my tearful eyes — 
A light comes flashing from the skies, 
Hark ! Hark ! a voice, it strikes my ear, 
A still small voice, so soft and clear — 
Turn to the Word it saith, ye blind, 
'Tis there, alone, the answer find 
In shining letters, bright and plain — 
To LIVE IS Christ, to die, is gain. 



THERE 15 A NAME. 

THERE is a name — highest of all. 
In earth or air or sky ; 
Before it men and angels fall. 
And devils fear and fly ; 
Not born of earth, from heaven it came — 
Jesus the name — ^Jesus the name. 

There is a name — an angel's tongue, 
First spake the wonderous word, 

When lo ! the Golden Harps were strung. 
To voice the thrilling chord. 

Quickly it flew on wings of flame — 

Jesus the name — ^Jesus the name. 



THERE IS A NAME. 167 

There is a name — no name so sweet, 

E'er fell on mortal ear ; 
Adoringly our lips repeat, 

While angels bend to hear ; 
And all the combined hosts exclaim, 
Jesus the name— Jesus the name. 

There is a name — when all is dark, 

And earthly hopes are fled ; 
When skies emit no gleaming spark, 

To light the path we tread, 
One word shall make our pathway plain — 
Jesus the name— Jesus the name. 

There is a name — when griefs appall, 

And sorrows bear us down ; 
When friendships fail and loved ones fall. 

And skies above us frown ; 
One name, shall make our losses gain — 
Jesus the name — Jesus the name. 

There is a name — when health is gone, 

When youth and vigor flee. 
When strength decays, and age comes on, 

One name, shall comfort me. 
'Twill chase my fear, and quench my pain, — 
Jesus the name— Jesus the name. 

There is a name — oh, icy death ! 

When I thy footsteps hear. 
If I may, by my latest breath. 

But gasp that name so dear, 
My soul shall mock thy boasted claim — 
Jesus the name — ^Jesus the name. 

There is a name — 'twill be my song, 

With dear ones gone before. 
With all the holy blood-washed throng, 

My song forever more. 
The Lamb once slain but lives again, — 
Jesus the sor\%^Jesus the name. 



i68 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE PARSON'S VACATION. 

THE old man went to meetin, for the day was bright and fair, 
Though his Hmbs were very totterin, and 'twas hard to travel 
there ; 
But he hungered for the gospel, so he trudged the weary way, 
On the road so rough and dusty, 'neath the summer's burning ray. 

By and by he reached the buildin, to his soul a holy place ; 
Then he paused, and wiped the sweat drops off his thin and 

wrinkled face ; 
But he looked around bewildered, for the old bell didn't toll ; 
All the doors were shut and bolted, and he didn't see a soul. 

So he leaned upon his crutches, and he said, "what does it 

mean?" 
And he looked this way and that, till it seemed almost a dream ; 
He had walked the dusty highway, and he breathed a heavy 

sigh- 
Just to go once more to meetin, ere the summons came to die. 

But he saw a little notice, tacked upon the meetin door, 
So he limped along to read it, and he read it o'er and o'er ; 
Then he wiped his dusty glasses, and he read it o'er again. 
Till his limbs began to tremble, and his eyes began to pain. 

As the old man read the notice, how it made his spirit burn ! 
" Pastor absent on vacation, church is closed till his return " — 
Then he staggered slowly backward, and he sat him down to think, 
For his soul was stirred within him, till he thought his heart 
would sink. 

So he mused aloud, and wondered, to himself soliloquized— 
" I have lived to almost eighty, and was never so surprised, 



THE PARSON'S VACATION. 169 

As I read that oddest notice, stickin on the meetin door — 
' Pastor gone on a vacation '—never heard the like before ! 

" Why, when I first jined the meetin, very many years ago, 
Preachers traveled on the circuit, in the heat and through the 

snow ; 
If they got their clothes and vittals ( 'twas but little cash they got ), 
They said nothin 'bout vacation, but were happy in their lot — 

"Would the farmer leave his cattle, or the shepherd leave his 

sheep ? 
Who would give them care and shelter, or provide them food to 

eat? 
So it strikes me very singler, when a man of holy hands, 
Thinks he needs to have vacation, and forsakes the tender lambs. 

" Did St. Paul git such a notion, did a Wesley, or a Knox ? 
Did they in the heat of summer, turn away their needy flocks ? 
Did they shut their meetin houses, just to go and lounge about? 
Why they knew it if they did, Satan certainly would shout. 

"Do the taverns close their bar rooms, just to take a little rest ? 
Why 'twould be the height of nonsense, for their trade would be 

distressed. 
Did you ever know it happen, or hear anybody tell, 
Satan takin a vacation, shuttin up the doors of hell ? 

" And shall preachers of the gospel, pack their trunks, and go 

away, 
Leavin saints and dyin sinners, git along as best they may ; 
Are the souls of saints and sinners, valued less than sellin beer ? 
Or do preachers tire quicker, than the rest of mortals here ? 

" Why it is, I cannot answer, but my feelins, they are stirred ; 
Here Fve dragged my totterin footsteps, for to hear the gospel 

word, 
But the preacher is a travellin, and the meetin house is closed ; 
I confess it's very tryin, hard indeed to keep composed. 



lyo THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

"Tell me, when I tread the valley, and go up the shinin height, 
Will I hear no angel singing — will I see no gleaming light ? 
Will the golden harps be silent— will I meet no welcome there ? 
Why the thought is most distractin, 'twould be more than I could 
bear. 

"Tell me ! when I reach the city, over on the other shore. 
Will I find a little notice, tacked upon the golden door, 
Tellin me, 'mid dreadful silence, writ in words that cut and burn — 
^ Jesus absent on vacatiofi — Heaven closed till his return f " 



THE NOO RmGION. 

THEY'VE found a noo religion, Jane, by searchin all creation, 
They say, it represents a much better dispensation. 
They hunted long and burrowed deep a grubbin and a borin, 
Ofen they thought they'd found it, but it had no wings for sorin. 

Still they kept a diggin on, a tryin this and that, 

Swallerin a whale, and chokin on a gnat ; 

Aimin to overthrow the Lord, and tearin off his crown, 

And then set up their little gods, but they would tumble down. 

They say they've got the thing at last, 'twill work a revolution ; 
Its Creed they say, has but two words, " Reason," " Evolution." 
By these they hope to pry the church from off its old foundation, 
And plant upon the ruined heap, their new found dispensation. 

They say the gospel's very nice, but that it needs revisin. 

To make it chime with modern thought, is not religious pisin ; 

The church, they say, has but one door, but theirs has two or 

three, 
And no repentance is required. Salvation's cheap and free. 

There is no beggin goin on, for heathen anywhere, 

And folks may do as they see fit, v/ithout resort to prayer ; 



THE NOO RELIGION. 171 

Why Jane, that's just the very thing, for cranks and discontents, 
Defaultin Clerks and Treasurers, and short, Bank Presidents. 

No need of gittin nervous, fer there's no collection box. 

And they never ask a member if his faith is orthodox ; 

They all may have their little gods, and paint them as they choose, 

And not be worried 'bout their souls, for they have none to lose. 

They eat, and drink, dance and play, through all the live long 

day, 
And hope, by chasin butterflies, to make religion pay ; 
They grind and pinch, squeeze and hoard, per cent, and stocks 

compute, 
Till by and by death comes along, and then they evolute. 

They say the old religion's slow, too narrow for the age ; 
The new is built in latest style, a road of broader gauge ; 
The old religion runs by faith, and has too many weights, 
The new, makes better time and speed, by doin 'way with brakes. 

The new religion suits the crowd ; is liberal indeed, 

And nurses in its lap of love, all shades of thought and creed, 

A Hottentot's as good a saint as any, so they say. 

And the spellin book is just as good, as the Bible, any day. 

The new religion places all upon a common level. 
And knows but little, or nuthin about a roarin devil ; 
What heaven is, or where it is, they give no clear solution, 
They only know the height of bliss, is found in evolution. 

Who evolution is or was, or where they git the notion, 
Is more perplexin to my mind, than Jonah in the ocean ; 
Delilah pullin Samson's hair, was not one-half so hurtin. 
As trying to believe what these new preachers are assertin. 

Why Jane, it's all a sham and farce, in spite of all their pleadin. 
We breathe and move, wake and sleep, just as they did in Eden. 



172 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

Truth is truth, and can't be changed, in this world or the other, 
There is but one rehgion, Jane, there'll never be another. 

Give me the old religion, Jane, the way our fathers trod, 

The Faith and Hope, that's found within, the dear old word of 

God. 
This new religion don't suit me, can't trust it for a minute, 
T'may do for a shinin bubble, Jane, but, there is nuthin in it. 



JONER 5WALLERIN A WHALE. 

I'VE jined the church and seen enough, of worldly fuss and foolin, 
Its nuthin but a noisy show besides, a costly schoolin. 
For five and forty year or more, I served the cause of Satan, 
And I couldn't say enough, agin, the churches, I was hatin ; 
The bible was to me a sham, of course, I never read it, 
I red a heap of Thomas Paine, and what he said, /said it ; 
I'd argy any bible saint, and smash his golden rule. 
And ginerally always bring him down, by sayin — "you're aphool !" 
I considered myself a kind of boss, a mity truth expounder, 
Not knowin I was dum and flat, as ever was a flounder, 
I thought myself a heap too smart, to jine a bible meetin. 
And said — religion is a fraud, and preachers was deceitin — 
Once I remember goin in, to hear a bible sermon. 
The preacher was a thick set man, his hair to gray was turnin ; 
He took his text, but I forgit just what the words, or where, 
But I told the fokes that asked me — I thought 'twas in Isaiar. 
'Twas that old bible story, so onreasonable and stale, 
'Bout Joner tumblin in the sea, and swallerin a whale : — 
I waited till the preacher closed, and when he got through 

preachin, 
I says to him, says I, look here ! do you bleve that yarn you're 

teachin ? 
The preacher looked dumfounded, and sez he — " my friend, what 

yarn ?" — 
Says I, that kind of preachin does a mity sight of harm, 



JONER SWALLERIN A WHALE. 173 

I mean sez I, that story, so old, worn out and stale, 

Of Joner, tumblin in the sea and swallerin a whale, 

Sez I — "its false, no matter who, that simple story wrote. 

No livin man on earth could git, a big whale down his throat," 

The people laughed, the preacher smiled, 'twas mor'n they could 

endure, 
The preacher sumhow looked confused, thinks I, he's cornered, 

sure — 
Sez he, " my friend, you've got it wrong, your mind's a little dim, 
Jonah didn't swallow the whale, 'twas the whale, that swallowed 

him, ' ' 
" Perhaps," said he, " you haven't given the subject, proper heed, 
Or else,— I beg your pardon, sir — you've not quite learned to 

read " — 
"Wal now," says I, "that's sayin a heap, and most oncommon 

cool — 
Do you, my aged preacher friend, take me to be a phool ? 
I've growed a man, and read a heep, an teached a country school. 
And now you want to put me down, as dummer'n a mule " — 
It raised my temper hot and high, to hear him talk that way. 
And so I spose, I said some things, I hadn't orter say. 
But then, I never go 'round the bush, I ginerally speak my mind. 
And though I seemed a little harsh, he took it very kind ; 
He give his hand, and then sez he — " before I say good bye. 
Allow me, sir, to say a word — mistakes are slow to die, 
When you git home, take my advice, take your bible down, 
And read again this wonderous tale of Jonah's strange renown, 
And see how easy 'tis to err, though truth be high and deep— 
'Be sure, you're right, then go ahead' — 'look first, before you 

leap ' " — 
I went straight home, took the bible, down from the mantel shelf; 
Brushed off the dust, to hunt the place, jist to satisfy myself; 
It tuk sometime to find the place, to me, it ginerally does. 
And so it took me near an hour, to find where Joner was ; 
At last I found it, and I read, as if I'd found a prize ; 
I read agin, and sakes alive ! I scarce could believe my eyes. 
Right there it was, in black and white, my sight begun to fail. 
It says, that Joner in the sea, was swallered by a whale — 



174 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

If I'd been struck by lightenin, I couldn't felt worse, I say, 
When I saw wot a phool I'd made myself, in the meetin house 

that day ; 
And then it was, this thought came in — 'tis the doins of the Lord, 
To prove to me how dum I was, by the shinin of his word, 
My doubts all fled, I jined the church, no more Tom Paine for me ; 
The bible agrees with common sense, as any man may see. 
So now, for nearly fifty years, I've seen a heap of things, 
I've watched the tricks and traits of men, from peasants up to 

kings ; 
But I never knowed an infidel yit, that didn't git holt the tail, 
And try to make the bible read — " Joner swallered the whale /" 



DOES IT PAY? 

DOES it pay?" the world is asking ; "Is there money in it, 
say?" 
For the all controlling power is the dollar of the day. 
Nothing's worth a thought around us, but to pinch and pull and 

plan, 
How to get the shining dollars, and to keep them if you can. 

" Does it pay ?" the world is asking, what is honesty or right ? 
What is justice, what is mercy, if a dollar is in sight? 
Life's a failure, without dollars, vain and futile all its aims — 
Dollars cover human failings, dollars take the place of brains. 

" Does it pay ?" the world is asking ; does religion furnish pay ? 
Will it bring me shining dollars if I join the church and pray ? 
True, the church may save the sinner, even lift him from the ditch, 
This to me the vital question— will religion make me rich ? 

" Does it pay?" the world is asking— days are short, and rushing 

past, 
I must gather in the dollars, I must do it very fast ; 



''BUT THE TONGUE, CAN NO MAN TAME." 175 

Men are moving, chasing, tumbling — dying of financial thirst, 
What care I, if tramping o'er them, I can get the dollar first ? 

" Does it pay ?" the world is asking ; " Is there money in it, say ?" 
Nothing's worth an earnest effort, if it brings no money pay ; 
Dollars gild the face of evil, spread a halo over vice. 
Reputation, honor, virtue, even have their money price. 

" Does it pay ?" the world is asking, grasping after glittering ore ; 
Pinch thy toiling brother harder, grind him yet a little more ; 
If he suffer want and hunger, what is that to me or thee ? 
Dollars, dollars, shining dollars, these are all the world to me. 

" Does it pay ?" the world is asking ; is there in the earth or sky 
Aught that has a worth so holy, shining dollars cannot buy ? 
Is a man divine, immortal, fated to be bought and sold, 
Like a stock in trade or barter— human souls for shining gold ! 

" Does it pay?" the world is asking, God Almighty! hear the 

cry, 
Stifled prayers, rising upward, burdened with unuttered sigh ; 
Haste the reign of love and mercy, break the desolating ban ; 
Speed the day when men shall glory in the brotherhood of man. 



BUT THE TONGUE, CAN NO MAN TAME." 

JAMES 111 : 8. 

THE tongue's a very little thing, 
But ah ! it has a deadly sting. 
To bridle it, is well nigh vain, 
Its rage, no mortal man can tame. 

When once it vents its hidden ire. 
It burns with almost quenchless fire, 
It wields a lash whose fiery cord. 
Is sharper than a two-edged sword. 



176 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

It cuts, and stings, it flames and burns. 
Where e'er its angry fury turns ; 
Its words are oil on troubled seas. 
Or fiery darts upon the breeze. 

Nations tremble at it^ word, 
It speaks, and untold depths are stirred, 
It moves, and lo ! how strange the spell, 
'Tis heaven, or alas ! 'tis hell. 

It moves, and tears begin to tiow, 
It speaks, and joyful accents glow, 
Its word evokes a smile or frown. 
It buildeth up, or teareth down. 

Oh, what a force for good or ill. 
Is lodged within its mystic will. 
Unless thou canst restrain its gall, 
'Twere better ne'er to speak at all. 

Be careful then, what thou shalt say ; 
A hasty word, is Satan's play, 
A hast}' tongue is a fiery steed. 
Which Satan drives, with reckless speed. 

The tongue indeed, is a little thing, 
But ah, it has a deadly sting. 
To bridle it, is well nigh vain, 
Its rage, no mortal man can tame. 



THEM NABERS. 177 



THEM NABERS. 

SIMON, I was jist a thinkin while a windin this ball of yarn, 
We made a great mistake, when we left the dear old farm, 
I sed to myself, " I'd rutherjnilk, an scrub the live-long day, 
Than live in a noisy^ village, jist to make a display." 
Don't you remember Simon, when we were little tots. 
We'd hide and whoop in the medder grass, an clime among the 

rocks. 
We'd make spit curls of dandylions, and hang em on our ears, 
An gather the yaller buttercups, them happy childhood years ? 
From then till now I always loved, them rocks an hills an vales. 
And the dear old farm house, neat and clean, behind them white- 
washed pales, 
I feel like kissin the very ground where mother used to tread, 
And father ploughed and cradled, but Simon— both is dead. 
'Twas hard to leave that dear old place, most mor'n I could bear. 
But 'twas harder still, to say good bye, to the nabers we had down 

there, 
Fer they was the most obligin set, I think I'd ever known, 
Attendin to their own affairs an lettin others alone. 
In butcherin time, or harvest, you know we'd lots to do, 
And ofen, we couldn't got along, if they hadn't a helped us 

through ; 
If we wanted to borry a lofe of bread, or borry a hand or so, 
We'd only to go and ask em, an they never once sed, no ! 
But sence we moved to the Corners, reely it 'pears to me, 
Them nabers liven here and us — why, we never kin agree. 
I've bin a doin my very best— a steerin strait and clear. 
But spite of all, there's nuthin 'tall thet they don't see an hear. 
Why the very day we moved here — we had an orful load — 
They cum a runnin outin doors, an stood rite in the road ; 
They histed winders, stared and stared— you Ci, was a gittin mad. 
An I gess by the time they got through lookin, they knowed jis all 
we had. 



178 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

You mind 'twas stormin mity hard, the rain poured like a flood, 

The axel broke, an all them things tumbled into the mud. 

Them nabers looked, an laffed an laffed, zif they had no wit, 

But there wasn't a single one of em that offered to help a bit. 

But we gethered up our furniter— sez I, Ci — sez I — 

If them's the kind of nabers here, we'd better say good bye ! 

Howsoever, we got ourselves moved in, an things all straitened up. 

Till one day, Ci was in the yard a makin a place fer the pup. 

When a naber cum, with a screechy voice, a naber rite next door — 

A peepin over the fence, sez she — " Dorgs is an offul bore," 

But Ci went on a hammerin, jis zif he never heard. 

And spite of the naber's lookin, he never sed a word. 

Agin, jis a few days after, I was hangin out the clothes, 

A red haired woman the other side, sez, them "Stockins is out 

at the toes," 
I never had much patience, so I sez — " them's my afi^airs " — 
" Hum !" sez she — " them country folks ud like to put on airs " — 
Last Sunday I went to meetin — I wore my braided dress, 
I jis got out an I heerd a voice — "That's the best she's got I gess." 
I looked up at a winder, when quick as a lightenin flash, 
I seen that red-haired naber, put down the winder sash — 
This mornin the door bell rung— I went to open the door. 
An there was a cousin of ourn, I hadn't seen afore. 
We wer a talkin on the doorstep— I heerd sumpin over head, 
Lawzee ! there was that red haired naber, a listenin to all we said. 
Then tother day I was sweepin, a snow drift, off" the step. 
My foot slipt an I tumbled off", afore I got it swep, 
I looked to see whose lookin — law sakes ! they was fore an aft ; 
From every door and winder, they looked at me an laffed. 
Ci heerd em laff, an he cum, as quick as he could to the door. 
An helped me up — I could hardly move, I was so weak an sore — 
But it riled him when the naber boys, cum in through a broken 

pale, 
The other night, an took the pup an tied sumpin to his tail — 
So now when Spring time comes agin with its green and grassy 

charm, 
Me and Ci, will move agin, back to the dear old farm. 
Give me the plain old farm house, its meddars and its cheer — 
I'd ruther have no nabers 'tall, than be a livin here. 



VARE ISH DO T GRAND T OLD COUNTY FAIR ? 179 



Vcire Ish Dot Grandt Old Gountv rair ? 

VARE ish dot grandt old Gounty Fair, 
Dot vonce vas wave so fine and prout ? 
Vy noddings vosh able to gompare 

Mit dot, to prings der greadt big crowdt. 

Der beeples, dey vos schwarm ter down ; 

Der roadts vos plocked, der down vas shammed. 
Vagons was biled up all aroun, 

So dere vas no more room to standt. 

Der osses runs, ter dust vos fly, 

Und settlesht on ter beeple's packs, 
Und sphiles dere clothes, und plindts dere eye ; 

Und ter sthreets vos full of dem pootiful hacks. 

Dey goes righdt straight to ter Gounty Fair, 
Ter see dem dings vot vosh immense ; 

Dem dings vot shines and sparkles dare — 
To gits insidte vos fifty cents. 

But, ven you vonce gits dare, insidte, 

You don't know vere you ish no more ; 

Mine weshcot schwells mit gounty pride, 
To see dem dings vot sphreadt pefore. 

Dem oxes, and dem bigs so sthoudt ; 

Dem peets and peens, dem sheeps and gows, 
Dot cabbitch vot make gute sauer kraut, 

Und schmhell so nice all droo de house. 

Dem shonny shump ups, roses redt, 

Dem boodle togs so hardt to sphare — 



I So THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

I veeps ven I dinks all dot is deadt 

Und gone, so ve no more goes dare. 

Dem insidt shows vot peats ter shew, 

Mit outsidt beeples all aroundt, 
Vot dakes ter eye, and ter monish doo, 

I see dem yit on dat fair groundt. 

Dem grazy quilts, dem bies und gakes, 
Ter bremium dey vos shure to vin, 

Dem race oss, doo, vot runs und makes 
Two forty miles a minute in. 

Dem bunkins, vot look like goldt — 

Dem bunkins veigh dree hundret poundt ; 

And den dey say, so I vosh dold, 

Dey hardly gits dem on de groundt. 

Some oder dings day hafs dare doo — 

Der goadt vot Sheneral Vashington wordt 

Ven he vos fights at Wasserloo, 

On dot brondt tay— Shuly ter Fourdt. 

Und den Sheff Davis' betty goat, 

Vot cost a heep— but he vos ritch— 

He lost it on dot veary roadt, 

Ven he vas look for dot last titch— 

But, oh, dem lofely girls in silk ! 

Dey dakes ter bremium efery dime ; 
Dey look so frish ash puttermilk, 

Shust off ter hills of Prandyvine. 

Dey gomes no more, dem lofely dears, 

Mine eyes dey heaves, dey nearly preaks. 

Mine pussums soake mit burning tears ; 
I don't know ven, I hav such akes — 



COUNTIN CHICKENS AFORE THEY'S HA TCHED. i8r 

Vat fur, dot fair all go ter smash ? 

Day say ter dickets vash doo sheap, 
Hoss shockeys, dey gits all der gash ; 

And ter farmers, dey looks on and veep. 

I likes to vipe mein e3'es away 

Before I makes mein farewell pow. 
Vere ish dot Gounty Fair, I say, 

And who will make dem bunkins now ? 



A Countin Chickens Afore Thev's Hatcned. 

NE and John wus married young ; I can't forgit the day ; 
I seen him first in the meddar, a rakin up the hay, 
I wus agoin across the barley field and jis stepped on the stile. 
When John looked up, dropt his rake, an give an onearthly smile. 
That smile ! I see it yit, I feel it yit, an that's why me an John 
Got Parson Brown to tie the knot, John whispered, " tie it strong," 
But I'm not agoin to tell it now, jis how it happened so, 
Fer courtin hez some secrets, thet's not fer all to know. 
But, what I want to say is this — when me and John were wed, 
I found he had, like other men— queer notions in his hed. 
If he gits an idee in his brane, there's no room there fer dout, 
An rite or rong there's nuthin lives, kin ever git it out ; 
I perty soon diskivered this— one day, late in the fall. 
The Eckynockshall storm let loose a most oncommon squall. 
John started to put up the stove, and brung the stove pipe down, 
Sez I— "yer've got the wrong pipe John" — he give a witherin 

frown ; 
I sez agin, " That pipe is wrong, yer've got it mixed, I spose," 
Sez he, " I'm doin this, wot's wimmin know 'bout stoves ?" 
So then I let him go ahead. He worked all that forenoon. 
It wouldn't fit, but he got the soot spilled all around the room ; 
He hammered, squeezed an' growled and groaned, he swet and 

then he swore 



i82 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Till he got so mad, he kickt the stove rite over on the floor ; 
And there he left it ; now, thinks I, that shows what man kin do ; 
Jis let him alone, all to hisself, he's sure to git in a stew — 
Well, it serves 'em right, if they wont take a woman's kind ad- 
vice, 
They've got to grin and bear the pane, and pay the extra price, 
I'll mention jis another fack, to prove my sayins true, 
En shows, a man that shets his ears to wimmin, gits his dew- 
Last spring, one evening John cum in. Sez he, " Abi dear, 
I'm goin to quit a keepin store ;" sez I, " Bin drinkin beer ?" 
" No," sez he, "I haint, but I can't git ritch this way," 
"Wot 'er yer goin to do?" sez I; sez he, "I've jis found out 

to-day. 
Sam Jones is huntin ofifis and he sez there's money in it ; 
My mind's made up to hunt one tu, he thinks I'll surely win it ; 
If I can git the nominee, Jones sez he'll put me through, 
The money in it '11 be clear gain, and nuthin much to do. 
Jones sez, I've got to 'lectioneer, shake hands with all I meet 
And be oncommon soshel, and smile, and often treet." 
Sez I, "Why Jones that won't be hard, I'll go rite at it now, 
I'll sell my store to git sum cash, mebbe Abi '11 sell the cow." 
"Abi," sez he, "I'm goin to try. Jones says he'll buy the store 
An put his boy in there to tend ; I couldn't ask fer more." 
Sez I, " Why John ! yer crazy sure. Yer'l have to liv on crust 
If yer sell yer bizness thater way— jist git yer offis fust." 
Sez he — an he giv a scorchin frown thet made me fairly groan, 
" Wot's wimmin know 'bout politix ? Their place is in the home." 
So agin, I let him hev his way. He bought a fancy teem 
And druv around, an round an round, wherever votes wur seen ; 
He got ten thousand cards writ ofi", an sent em out by male. 
An treeted every man he seen, to brandy, beer or ale. 
At last he cum a stragglin home. " I've made," sez he, "a toor, 
I've spent a heep of money, but, I b'leve I've got it sure." 
But I kep mum, an waited till the leckshun day cum on, 
Fer I hed a kind of notion, 'twould be the last of John. 
An so it was. The day did cum ; from mornin till 'twas night, 
My John, he couldn't eat a bit, he sed his hed felt lite ; 
But he went to heer the latest nuse ; he looked oncommon thin. 



OUR RANKS ARE GETTING THIN. 183 

He soon cum back— sez he, "I'm whipped, I didn't quite git in." 
He hardly couldn't keep his feet ; yer orter've seen his face— 
The very picter of despair, ez if he'd fell from grace. 
Sez I, "John Brown ! yer like a mule, which hez'n't a doller ner 

sense, 
Yer look to see jis where yer've lit, after yer've jumped the fence ; 
I knowed jis how 'twould cum around ; them chaps would lay yer 

fiat 
Because yer politix haint rite, yer an ole stile Dimmicrat." 
I told you — "git the offis fust," so now yer money's gone — 
A phool counts chickens 'fore they's hatched. That's jis what you 

hev done. 



OUR RANKS ARE GETTING THIN. 

COMRADES, our ranks are getting thin, our number less and 
less, 
Do you marvel that a falling tear, should utter its distress? 
No wonder, as we look along our thinning ranks to-day, 
Our silent tears should speak the wprds, our lips refuseto say. 

As each Memorial Day recurs and the muster roll is read. 
There steals along our shattered ranks wierd whispers of the dead ; 
We miss their genial faces, boys, yet still, on memory's scroll, 
They live, aye, shall forever live, engraven on the soul. 

The warm grasp of each friendly hand, now cold in icy death, 
Has left behind a magic spell, throbbing with living breath ; 
Though hushed the voice, though stilled the heart, by death's re- 
lentless thrust, 
The lustre of heroic deeds survives their crumbling dust. 

A name is called, there's no response to greet the listening ear, 
No voice is heard, but a solemn hush proclaims the sad "not 
here." 



i84 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

A soldier of the Union guard, undaunted in the strife, 
He stood beneath the Union stars and vowed to serve for life. 
Nobly he served the allotted time, a hero brave and true, 
At last he lays his armor down, beneath the starry blue. 

We lay upon their coffined form the flag they loved so well, 
And sadly march, with muflfled drum, and dirge of funeral knell. 
We stand around the open grave, with saddened hearts and mute, 
And waft a soldier's last Farewell, a requiem salute. 

Our ranks, are growing sadly thin ; we almost half incline 
To think, some unseen foe has charged upon our shattered line. 
'Tis true we hear no cannon's roar, we see no glittering steel. 
And yet, how silently they fall, as on the battle field. 

Death plants his batteries high and low, to sweep the embattled 

plain, 
And points his noiseless shotted guns, with strange unerring aim. 
Hark ! how his balls go whistling by, his bombs explode so nigh — 
Ah, boys, who'll be the next to fall ? perchance 'tis you or I. 

Still we recall the by-gone days, when the trumpet blast of war. 
Echoed o'er the slumbering hills, shook by the cannon's roar. 
How with eager, hastening step, you were not the men to lag, 
You were ready, without faltering, to protect the nation's flag. 
You were ready, life in hand, on your country's altar laid, 
Home and loved ones, fame and fortune, " Country first," j'ou 
said — 

Attention, comrades ! fall in quickly ; we are yet in rank and file, 
We are not discharged from duty — only on furlough for awhile. 
The bugle and the tapping drum, the sword and bayonet. 
The knapsack and the old canteen, set us ablaze e'en yet — 

On ! on to Richmond, boys, hurrah— let not a soldier lag, 
Hark ! do you hear the rebel guns ? Up with the Union flag ! 
But halt ! what's this ? My limbs are weak, pain strikes me here 

and there, 
My breath is short, my joints are stiff^comrades bring me a chair — 



CHIRPEE. 185 

Ah yes, how strange ! I see it now, my memory comes anew, 

I thought 'twas eighteen sixty-one, but lo ! 'tis ninety-two. 

I thought I was a boy again, as thirty years ago. 

But stiffened limbs and fading sight, locks whitening as the snow. 

All tell me I am growing old, and soon must face about. 

And wait to hear the stern command — " 'Tis time to muster out." 

Then comrades are we ready for the final grand review ? 

Are you ready — as in sixty-one, you saved the starry blue ?— 

When the Great Commander shall announce the last and final halt, 
When we stack our trusty muskets, when we meet the last assault, 
May we have an honored entrance, where the clang and din of war, 
And the weary march and battle, shall deplete our ranks no more. 

Then kindly strew sweet flowers of Spring, on the little grassy 

mound, 
Where sleeps the Union soldier, in his silent camping ground. 
Plant there a sweet "Forget-me-not," that kissed by the dewy 

dawn, 
Shall breathe a living fragrance there, when we at last, are gone. 



CHIRPEE.* 

GONE, is our little feathered pet, 
His merry song we no more hear, 
'Twas but a little birdee, yet 

We cannot help but shed a tear. 

Could tears return its life to me, 

Were power equal to my wishes strong, 

I'm sure, its little form I'd see, 
And hear again its little song. 

* " Chirpee," our little pet Canary bird, died on January 4th, 1893, aged about 
10 years, being in the family during all these years. 



i86 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Its little heart has ceased to beat, 

Alas ! its merry voice is still ; 
No more its gleeful song so sweet, 

Shall cheer me with its tender trill. 

Oft, when days were cold and drear, 

My ear would catch its sprightly tune. 

And lo ! though winter time was here. 

Sweet " Chirpee " made me think, 'twas June. 

Sweet little pet ! unfeeling death. 

Must rudely touch thy golden wing ; 

Perchance an Angel kissed its breath, 
And sent it, higher notes to sing. 

Ten years of song, sweet household pet ! 

Gave joy and cheer, to loved ones gone, 
Thy music lingers 'round me yet, 

Like echoes of a fairy song. 

Who knows ? perchance 'twill live again, 
To sing on trees of fadeless green. 

To recompense its death and pain — 
Oh say not, 'tis a poet's dream. 

For how could such a lovely thing. 

Impart such charm to heart and eye. 

If 'twere not meant, somewhere, to sing 
Where songs and beauty do not die ? 



A REVERIE. 187 



A REVEPIE. 

AH ! where are the years of my childhood ? 
And the flush of my once rosy cheek — 
The Violets, I plucked in the wildwood, 
The Buttercups yellow and sweet ? 
Alas ! they are withered and dead. 
Like a vanishing dream, or a shadowy gleam 
Athwart the lone path, that I tread. 

Where are the long raven tresses 
Once adorning with beauty my brow ? 
The joj^ of my childish caresses ? 
There remains but the memory now — 
My thin locks are gray. 
My form bends low, my steps are slow, 
How true ! we are passing away. 

Is it so ? like a wavelet of ocean, 

Our years like a tale that is told, 

A vapor, a flash, an emotion, 

A breath, but drawn, and is old. 

O vanishing years ! 

Do I float on thy breath as an atom of death 

'Mid smiles enshrouded in tears ? 

Ah, where are the friends of my childhood ? 
They have passed to the shadowy deep. 
Beneath the sere leaves of the wildwood, 
They slumber the dreamless sleep ; 
They live in my heart, 
Their voices I hear ; still they seem near, 
Though unseen, we are not far apart. 



1 88 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

But a moment, prevaileth the parting, 

'Tis but a thin curtain between : 

The rending, the weeping, the smarting, 

But shows us, how near the unseen, 

'Tis the door, which at even, 

Swings open and wide, to the weary and tried, 

The beautiful door of Heaven. 



THE GOSPEL RAILWAY. 

ABOUT six thousand years ago, in Eden's flowery vale. 
Our father, Adam, was the first, to lay the gospel rail ; 
Almost one thousand years he toiled, beneath his weary load, 
To push into the wilderness, this wonderous gospel road. 
Then Seth and Enos, Cainan, next, then Enoch, good and true, 
With hearty zeal, all labored hard, the work to hasten through — 
Methuselah and Lamech next, with earnest faithful toil. 
By day and night, strove hard to break, the rocky, stubborn soil ; 
The rails were laid, until they reached a boundless ocean shore, 
When faithful Noah, by skill divine, bridged the waters o'er. 
Across this span the rails were laid ; above the roaring flood. 
For high above the seething tide, the firm abutments stood ; 
The work went on, years rolled away, they labored none the less, 
And day by day advance was made, into the wilderness. 
Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, too, most noble toil have done, 
To aid the faithful laborers, the work to carry on. 
And Moses next, for forty years, toiled with tireless hand, 
To push the gospel railway track, across the desert land. 
The Prophets, too, a fearless band, their work will never die, 
For lo ! 'tis stamped upon the rails, that on the roadway lie ; 
'Mongst roaring lions, hate and scorn, they urged their onward way, 
Despite the flaming fire and sword, the gospel rails they lay. 
Till they had spanned a vast domain, with wonderous skill and plan, 
And made a junction with the line, which heaven first began. 



THE GOSPEL RAILWAY. 189 

And thus the mighty work was done, the gospel track was laid, 

And founded firmly on the Rock, without a curve, ox grade, — 

So broad and ample is its gauge, it passes every cot, 

And yet so narrow is the track, that some will see it not — 

The train is moving ; hear you not, its mighty roaring sound ? 

So lengthy is the moving train, it shakes the very ground — 

The Locomotive is the word ; the Bible is its name : 

The steam that moves the mighty wheels, the Spirit's living flame ; 

The Engineer is at his post, to steer the train along : 

His name is called "Emmanuel ;" He is both safe and strong, — 

Beelzebub has tried to place, obstructions on the track ; 

The rugged Cross, and fagot, the gibbet and the rack ; 

But onward moves the rumbling cars, obstructions are in vain. 

Because the Engineer hath said, " No power shall stop the train." 

Conductors too are on the train ; they never leave their post : 

A noble band of Overseers, a brave heroic host. 

Day and night, they cry aloud, " Come ! get aboard the train," 

The way is safe ; the passage /r^^, to heaven's flowery plain. 

Matthew, Mark, and Luke and John, Paul and Silas, too, 

Peter, and the martyr band, Conductors were so true, 

Wickliffe, Luther, Wesley, Knox, than whom no nobler band. 

Has ever stood upon the train, to wave the beckoning hand. 

In voices loud and clear they cried, above earth's noisy din, 

" Come ! whosoever will, may come, and find a seat within " — 

There's room enough for all the world, for each a pleasant seat. 

And food the very best indeed, such as the Angels eat. 

The passengers are good and kind, they love each other true. 

They cry, " Oh, would that all mankind, would journey with us 

too"— 
The cars are all the same within, no difference can they find. 
The food and fare, and pleasant talk, promote one heart and mind. 
'Tis true the cars are named outside, but those within the train. 
See not the color of the cars, nor what the outer name. 
The train increases year by year, vast multitudes still come, 
And faithful overseers declare, to ail, "there yet is room," 
From Afric's scorched and arid plains ; from India's coral strand. 
From every slumbering ocean isle, from China's teeming land, 



I90 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

From north and south, from east and west, from mountain hill and 

plain. 
The eager multitudes press on, to reach the moving train ; 
They come, they come! they cry, "Oh! help! lest we be left 

behind !" — 
" 'Tis hard to grope in darkest night, the gospel road to find." 
To us who dwell in this fair land, the noble task is given, 
To help the seeking multitudes, to find their way to heaven. 
To put them on the gospel train, as over hill and glen, 
It glides upon its golden rails to the New Jerusalem. 
For there's the City of our God, to which this Railway leads ; 
And there life's crystal river flows, amidst the flowery meads. 
Its gates of pearl will open wide, to greet the coming train, 
And when we once have entered there, we'll ne'er go out again — 
So now we see the gospel road, completely, firmly made ; 
Its rails were forged in Paradise, and on the Rock were laid ; 
The train goes thundering on its way, with all its living freight, 
Let each one haste to get aboard, for soon, 'twill be too late ; 
Then do not tarry, haste away, for heaven your passage claim. 
Remember ! if you miss this line, there is no other train! 



SATAN'S RAILWAY. 

THERE is a Railway dark and drear, its history I begin. 
It leads from Paradise to death, 'tis called the Road of Sin ; 
'Twas built by Satan and his aids, six thousand years ago, 
To carry passengers from earth, to realms of blackest woe. 
He labored hard with all his force, the dismal rails to lay. 
And finished all the hideous work in one ill-fated day. 
He placed the cars upon the track — and such a horrid train. 
Makes all who gaze upon it blush, and hide their face in shame — 
Fuel from the fiery pit, supplies the motive power, 
That moves the dismal train along, each ill-requited hour. 



SATAN'S RAILWAY. 191 

It runs so near the Gospel Road that easy 'tis to stray, 
But look ! and you will always see the cars go 'tother way. 
The gospel track is on the Rock, but this on broken piles, 
Which Satan sank into the mire along its weary miles ; 
He tried his best to make the road, to imitate the good, 
But its rails are made of brittle stuff, its ties of rotten wood. 
A ditch extends along the track, 'tis filled with filth of sin, 
And as the dismal train moves on, it often tumbles in. 
And then they wallow in the mire, in such a piteous plight. 
E'en Satan smiles to see them tug, 'tis such a curious sight — 
And such a motley class of cars, as pass along the line, 
Some finely gilded ; some are black, each has it well read sign — 
For instance, there's the Smoking Car, where age and youth, 

indeed. 
Delight to breathe the poisoned fumes, and chew the filthy weed— 
And then, there is the Drinking Car, all stained with blood and 

tears. 
No sounds, save curses, griefs and groans, fall on the listless 

ears — 
They who wish to enter here, need but a trifling sum — 
'Tis only take, just now and then, a social glass of rum — 
Touch not, taste not, the dangerous stuff, beware, dear boys, 

beware ! 
One drop may put you on the train, that leads to black despair — 
And then there is the Swearing Car, the blackest of the train, 
Where day and night God's holy name they dare to take in vain. 
And then there is the Lying Car, where grave old age and youth. 
By low deceit and cunning craft, make gain by shunning truth. 
And then, there is the Stealing Car, for thieves to ride within, 
False weights and measures, picks and keys, their implements of 

sin. 
Again, there is the Murder Car, 'twas built before the flood, 
Cain was the first conductor here, he shed his brother's blood. 
And then the Sabbath-breaking Car, for those who work or play, 
Or shun the sabbath school or church, on God's most holy day. 
Then there is a Sleeping Car, by many 'tis in quest. 
For sleeping sluggards, who demand, a little further rest. 
And then, as if to give respect to this most hideous train, 
There is a Moral Car attached, for such as seek a name, 



192 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

A name to live, while they are dead, a name for men to praise ; 
They strive to hide an inward blot, by gilding outward ways. 
Alas, for them, their hopes are vain, no matter how they try, 
The sham will end, deception fail, their honors fade and die — 
But all, indeed, who journey here, will meet an awful fate. 
Unless they haste to leave the train, before it is too late ; 
The longer they remain aboard with greater speed they go, 
For, ever downward is the grade, toward the pit of woe. 
There are no brakes upon the train, it rushes ever on. 
From Paradise to Land of Death, whence it will ne'er return ; 
Be not deceived ; look well, before you get upon this train. 
For once aboard, 'tis Grace alone can get you off again. 
Many poor deluded ones, who've taken passage here, 
Supposed that they could leave the train when dangers did ap- 
pear — 
But they, alas ! had gone too far, they longed to wander bacl^, 
And though they leaped from off the train, they perished on the 

track ; 
From Paradise to Land of Death, their bones lie strewn along, 
And o'er them vultures flap their wings, and sing their siren song — 
Keep off! keep off! this horrid train, of Satan's road beware ! 
It leadeth to the Land of Death, to darkness and despair, 
And all who ride on Satan's line will surely come to it. 
For at its end nothing remains save the Fiery Pit. 



JININ THE ODD FELLERS. 193 



JININ THE ODD TELLERS. 

MANNER, I've jined the Odd Fellers— I know yer feelin glad, 
But I haint allowed to tell, what a dredful time I had, 
I wouldn't go through it agin, if they'd give back, twice my five, 
Fer Hanner, I never expected to see you agin, alive. 
Them Odd Fellers is a queer set, I thought so 'for I jined, 
But theyse a heap more odderer, than I expected to find, 
I sez to em I wanted to jine, if they thought I was odd enuff. 
And I gess I am, fer Hanner sez, " I'm the oddest kind of stuff." 
That's zackley wot I told em, but I spect yer'l wanter know, 
Jist wot they done, an wot they sed, an all about the show. 
But I'll have to tell yer Hanner, Odd Fellers tell no tales. 
You may ask em how they do it, but they're jist as mum as whales, 
But I'll tell this much — when I got there, I stood outside the door. 
An I peeped in through the key hole, fer a half an hour or more ; 
By em by a man inside cum 'round, and whispered through the 

hole, 
Sez I — "jis holler louder, I'm gittin deef and old. 
Then he opened the door and let me in, an when I got inside, 
Sez I—" I cum to jine the Lodge." Sez he—" I'll call the guide." 
In a little while a feller cum, rigged up in fringe an gold : 
Sez he — " my friend, we'll now perceed, to git you in the fold "— 
Hanner— Odd Fellers are queer you bet — its hard to find em out, 
They have so many grips and sines, an shadders all about ; 
You'd think the sperits hovered there, an a floatin all around. 
But yer can't see nuthin, only you hear, a most onearthly sound — 
Well — they put a handkcher on my eyes, an a chap sez — "foller 

me." 
Sez I — " do you take me fer a phool, don't you see, that I can't 

see ?" 
Howsumever, I tried to foller him. Sez he— "Keep cam an 

sweet," 
When all to onct, down I cum, fer there was nuthin under my feet, 



194 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Well, ez soon as I teched bottom, sez I — " fer the livin sakes !" 

Is this the lower region ? fer I thought I heerd the snaix. 

The swet jis rolled like billers, an my head begin to swim, 

I sez to myself — " Deer Hanner, will I ever see thee agin ?" 

It seemed to git amazin hot, my hair stood up with feer, 

Sez I, " old feller, let me out, I've got no business here." 

Sez he — an his voice was ghosty like — " Rore, mity fires, roar," 

When up I shot like a lightenin streak, and lit upon the floor. 

My clothes was soaked in floods of swet, I shook jis like a leaf, 

The guide said sumpin— I couldn't hear — " Louder," sez I — " I'm 

deef." 
Then he took the handkcher off my eyes, and what do you think 

I seen ? 
There stood a pole a loomin up. Sez I, " wat's that thing 

mean ?" 
Sez he, " yer not odd nuff yit. Climb up, and git that note. 
If yer can git that dollar bill, yer'U have a yoonanimous vote, 
Yer can't be an Odd Feller, 'cept you go from ' A ' clean through 

to 'Z.' 
Them shinin links is Love for all, and Hope, and Charitee." 
Them odd fellers were a standin 'round with curtains on their 

eyes, 
A waitin to see me climb that pole and git that dollar prize. 
I had that noo white weskit on, you bought jis 'tother day, 
I thought 'twas a leetle risky, still I spose I had to obey — 
Well, Hanner, I started to clime that pole, determined fer to win, 
But I did'nt git up mor'n a foot, an I slid right down agin. 
Sez I, " I'm bound to git that note," an I give my hands a smack. 
Then I tried it agin, and down I cum right on the broad of my 

back ; 
"Wot kind of a pole is that," sez I, " it 'pears so slippy like ;" 
Then I took a look at my weskit — Lauzee ! wot a movin site. 
I was smeared with greese and taller from toe to top of coat ; 
I looked most like a skeer crow, but, I got that dollar note. 
I was goin to leave, when the guide, sez he, " afore we take the 

vote, 
There's one thing more yer've got to do — yer have to ride the 

goat." 



JININ THE ODD FELLERS. 195 

Wot ! sez I — me ride a gote? yer can't phool me with chaff! 
Don't you think, them Odd Fellers yelled rite out, an jined in a 

hearty laff ; 
That chap with the gold fringe on, sez he — " Brother don't be 

afraid," 
Yer gittin along 'mazin well — that's how Odd Fellers er made. 
Jis then the gote cum boundin in, rite out inter the room, 
An afore I was reddy he made far me, jist a leetle bit too soon. 
Afore I knowed wot I was about, he give a tremenjus butt, 
An sent me sprawlin onto the floor, considerble broozed and cut, 
But I didn't mean to be beat by a gote — never was sence I was 

born. 
So I made a rush an grabbed the broot aholt of his crooked horn. 
I got astraddle his grissley back, an he tried to throw me off, 
He reared an pitched an tore hisself^mi ! but he was roth, 
I was a holden on, wen quick as a flash— his eyes wer fiery red. 
He reared rite up an kicked strait out — I landed on my head. 
When I cum to, I looked around — sez I — " wots goin on ?" 
I looked to see that frisky gote, but the pleggy thing was gone. 
Sez I — "Look here, haint I odd nuff yit? I've had a dreadful 

through — 
And the feller with the gold fringe on, sez he — "You'll do, my 

friend — you'll do." 



196 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



[lUREKA! 

EUREKA ! Eureka ! I've found it at last, 
My long sought other half ; 
The days of my wearisome searching are past, 

Let us join in a hearty good laugh ! 
Oft did I think myself laid on the shelf. 
Lopsided — unbalanced — half done, 
How could I be happy, when half oivnyi^M, 
Didn't seem to be under the sun ? 

Vainly I looked, first, this way, then that, 

A disconsolate, disjointed elf ; 
Sometimes feeling hopeful, but oftener7?a/f. 

For I was but half of myself. 
But half of an eye ; but half of a heart. 

But half of a body and soul — 
Do you wonder that I should be crabbed and tart 

Whilst conscious that I wasn't whole ? 

Sometimes in the crowded and bustling street, 

Rushing past, a fair maiden would flit, 
On the spur, I would shout— hurrah ! I'm complete. 

But alas ! the fair piece didn't fit, 
So then in my grief, disappointment and tears, 

I would weep my sad half nigh away, 
And almost conclude that the search of my years, 

Would end in a bachelor's lay. 

Eureka ! a fair maiden I spied one day, 

And she looked so bewitchingly sweet ; 

I said to myself, if there's nought in the way, 
I think she, will make me complete. 



■A ROLLING STONE GATHERS NO MOSS" 197 

So with light throbbing heart I ventured to ask — 
Well, you know, what I mean, without telling, 

She answered so sweetly, 'twas sunshine at last. 
My gloom and my darkness, dispelling. 

So at last I am whole, Eureka ! hurrah ! 

I'm no longer a bachelor, stale — 
I wearied of trying to play see-saw. 

With none but myself on the rail, — 
Up and down, up and down, I descend and ascend — 

Excuse me, I can't help but laugh, 
For see ! over there on the opposite end. 

Sits my other, and best looking half. 



A ROLLING STONE GATHERS NO MOSS." 



A DUTCHMAN'S ADVICE TO HIS SON JOHN. 



C HON, kom here ! I vonts to talk mit you, and say somedings 

»^ or so, 

You vonts to go avay, hey ! veil, vot for, you vonts to go ? 

Ish de old farm got too schmall, dot you noddings findts to do ? 

Vy dares dem sthones ; dem fence ish down, dares blenty vork 

for you. 
Here ish von hundert aker, und my back ish gittin veak, 
I'm grippled up, I'm gittin oldt, and blayed oudt, so to spheak — 
" Go vest !" you say? vot for ? hash you noddings here to eat ? 
Vy de house ish is full of sauerkrout, and de parn is full uf veat. 
Vot more you vonts ? — I dells you Shon, vork dos nopoddy harm — 
Ish you 'fraid you sphile your handts, mit vork aroundt de farm ? — 
Now hear me vot I dells you, Shon, — a goot many year ago 
I learn two proferb — dey safes me money, I know — 



198 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

" A rollin stohne ; dey git no moss " — Can you rememper dat ? 

De odder ish — " A settin hen gits nefer any fat " — 

Now Shon, I lofes dem proferb much — you git dem in your head, 

You nefer runs avay from home, to git sum daily pred — 

You say you vonts to go pehindt a gounter, in a stohre, 

Pecause you say farm vork ish hard, und make your handts so 

sore— 
I guess you vonts to be a dudte, und vear some finer clothes ; 
Vy Shon, dem dutes, de older dey gits, de littler dey grows. 
Ven I vos young and sthrong like you, I vorked, I dells you dat, 
Und dot ish how I git dish farm, und make me sthoudt and fat. 
I nefer vear dem nice kit glofes, mit sthand up gollors too. 
Ho no! de oldt man say — "you sthick to home, an home vill 

sthick to you," 
And so I sthick, und sthick dere yit, to me it vosh no loss, 
Und dot vos droo — "a rollin sthone git nefer any moss." 
Dot proferb now I gifs to you, und de odder, I gifes you dat — 
De settin hen vot nefer could, git hardly any fat. 
No use at all, to run apout — dem city now ish full, 
De beeples dare, dey hafs to squeeze, und pinch and shirk and 

pull. 
Dey schwets, and frets, an dries so hardt, but dey nefer gits dere 

vish, 
Dey gits somedimes so shumpled up, dey dondt know who dey 

ish — 
Dere's no blace like de goot old farm, de grass, de voots, de kricks, 
De plossom on de apple drees, schmell schweeter as de bricks. 
Dem sherries, and dem bunkin fines, dem honeysuckle dare, 
Vot grow aroundt de kitchen door, und make so schweet de air — 
Shon, vot grow aroundt dem city door ? I dells you if you hear — 
Vy noddings but tobacker shuce, mixed up mit lager bier ; 
Und den, dere ish dot city gow, gifs watery milk, and plue, 
But de gountry gow, gifs nice schweet milk, dey drinks de glofer 

dew- 
Now I vill say dem proferb 'gin. You dry to 'memper dat, 
" A settin stohn, der boet say, vill nefer git no fat." 
And den de odder proferb too, vill safes you many loss — 
"A rollin hen, — now dondt forgit !— he nefer git no moss." 



THE MEETIN-HOUSE IS SPLIT. 199 



THE MEETIN-HOUSE IS SPLIT. 

I'VE bin a member most my days, an I'm not a-tirin yit, 
But I never thought I'd see the day when the meetin-house 'd 
split ; 
I've bin aboard the " Old Ship Zion," a-sailin with her crew, 
An now, she's run agin a snag, that's cut her " hull " in two. 
I'll tell you how 'twas brung about — they was only jist a few. 
But they sed they'd have to split, there was nuthin else to do. 
Now, ez I was actin Stewart, I went around last night 
To 'tend a 'fishel meetin— things hedn't bin goin rite. 

The 'fishel board filled every seet, there was hardly standin room, 
I'd not seen sech outpourin sence— well, I think, last June. 
They hed sum stirrin meetins then, a-discussin the natur of sin, 
And 'twas thought they'd hev to split the church to git that or- 
gan in ; 
But they got it in, an ever sence that thing's bin in the choir. 
They've had a sight of trouble with Deacon Brown, the squire. 

Well, ez I was goin to say, last nite the 'fishel board, with Brown, 
Got so hot they called fer air, an pulled the winders down. 
That ten-plate stove hed no fire in, and only the candle sconce 
Hed a little flame, but 'twas 'mazin queer how hot it got to once. 
The preacher didn't git there, an Deacon Brown, sez he : 
"This meetin-house hez got to change, to hold my wife an me ;" 
An he brought his fist down on the stand, till it cracked most like 

a gun. 
An stamped his foot onto the floor, most like it weighed a ton. 
The deacon got to findin fait, the preacher didn't soot ; 
Nobody knowed jis why it was he was a-raisin sich dispute. 
But there was a little widder Jones, who tended meetin's there. 
Who always sot back near the door, not havin much to wear. 



200 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

This widder had a darter, I s'pose about twenty-five, 

An the preacher bein single, often tuk her out to drive. 

I guess the young gal loved him, leastways they sed she did. 

An the people got to talkin — some sed 't should be forbid, 

I don't know why, 'ceptin it was they sed the gal was poor. 

She hed no social standin, and her people was obscure. 

'Twouldn't do fer the preacher to marry her, if he did, he'd hev 

to go ; 
An I s'pose that's jis why Deacon Brown went on a-favin so. 

They talked theirselves a'most to death, an could hardly talk no 

more, 
Why sumtimes eight or ten, to once, were standin on the floor. 
You couldn't understand a word what they were talkin about, 
Sum was a-laffin, sum shed teers, and sum were in a pout. 
A brother, speakin a leetle loud, sez he, " We wont be druv," 
An jist ez he sed it, I can't tell how, they upsot that ten-plate 

stove. 
I spose the jarrin loosed the pipe, an when it tumbled down, 
It spattered a lot of chimbley sut, rite over Deacon Brown. 
But Cheerman Johnsing pausin awhile, till things were gethered 

in — 
It giv em a chance to git their breth, an they started off agin. 
I did heer Cheerman Johnsing say— "All opposed, say I," 
An every man, I think, sed No ! ez loud as he could cry. 
Then the cheerman sed that settled it, the motion's got to go. 
But what the motion was that won, even the cheerman didn't 

know. 
But Squire Brown got in a word, his cheeks begun to swell : 
"Tell me," sez he, "that motion, please," an there wasn't one 

could tell. 
An so they kep a-wranglin on till the midnight bell hed hit, 
When they all jumped up an left, a-sayin, " The Meetin-House is 

split." 

'Twas late when I got home that nite— the folks were most 

ondone, 
My wife wuz a weepin' herself to death because I hedn't cum. 



THE 3fEE TIN-HOUSE IS SPLIT. 201 

Sez I to her : " Mirandy deer, weep not, I'm livin yit ; 
That 'fishel board has settled it — the meetin-house is split." 
Mirandy wiped her weepin eye, she didn't know what to think, 
But she dreamed all night the sun hed split, an she hardly slept a 

wink. 
She saw the New Jerusalem, the gates were split in two, 
An the sea of Glass, 'afore the throne, hed a crack a-running 

through. 
The Golden Harps and the Glitterin Crowns, wer a-splittin all 

around — 
An she didn't wake till the cracked house bell giv its early 

mornin sound — , 

Well, in a day or so the nuse leeked out an the people got the 

word ; 
There wus a flurry among 'em, I tell you, the meetin-house was 

stirred. 
The preacher read a notice for the meetin folks to meet, 
And that nite when the people gethered there wasn't a vacant 

seet ; 
But they wus mostly poor folks, not many upper-ten, 
Jis lots an lots of sistern, but mighty few of the men, 
An when the preacher told 'em he was goin to say " Good-bye," 
Them sistern got their hankchers out, and all begun to cry. 
But Deacon Brown wus a-settin back, he didn't weep a bit; 
He stood rite up, " Brethring," sez he, "this meetin-house is 

split." 
" I say," sez he, " it's split ! it's split ! it can't be ment no more, 
Yer mite ez well hang out yer crape on the latch of that old 

door." 
An I guess it wus, fer Brown went out, three others went out too, 
An only the common folks wus left, a saying, " What'll we do ?" 
Brown started another meetin-house, a grander one, I 'spect, 
An called it — well, I jis forgit, anyhow, 'twas another seckt — 

^ Bout the meetin-house ? you say ; well, the preacher changed his 

mind, 
He didn't go ; the wimmin pled, the old folks stayed behind ; 



202 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

That gal stayed too, no wonder, fer he was oncommon smart, 

An everybody seen to once, they didn't mean to part. 

Soon't got out, so the wimmin sed, for they both went to town, 

An bought a lot of housal-goods and she her weddin gown. 

An so at last when things got quiet, the preacher and her were 

wed. 
An spite of the splittin in the church the meetins went ahead. 
But peeple sed 'twas dretful — a livin, burnin shame 
To split the meetin-house that way— an Brown, he wus to blame ; 
But if you ask 'em what it was that made 'em split up so. 
They'll git a coughin spell and say, " Reely, I don't know." 



THE CENTURY'S JUBILEE. 

STRIKE again the famed old bell. 
Rouse it from its dreamy sleep ; 
Let its music surge and swell 

With an ever-widening sweep, 
Let it shout its clanging voice. 

Over land and over sea ; 
Let the Continents rejoice ; 
'Tis our Country's jubilee. 

Let it ring a louder peal 

Than in yonder by-gone time. 
When first it sang a nation's weal. 

The first glad notes of freedom's chime. 
The first crude notes of its noisy din, 

Which scarce awoke the world's concern. 
Have grown into a matchless hymn. 

The world bends down to hear and learn. 

Swept by the finger touch of God, 

No note of discord mars its strain ; 

To its charmed spell the nations nod. 
In anthems worthy of its fame. 



THE CENTURY'S JUBILEE. 203 

All hail ! sweet music of the free ; 

Columbia sits entranced to-day ; 
Her plaudits ring aloud for thee, 

Her soul exults beneath thy sway. 

Fling out your flags, your banners raise, 

Let praise her paeans never cease ; 
Afresh, let freedom's altars blaze 

Amid the sweet incense of peace ; 
The charter of the nation's life, 

The insignia of her strength and fame. 
Unscathed amid the battle strife. 

Holds still fair freedom's torch of flame. 

See ! upon the century's highest peak, 

Her temple stands, majestic, grand ; 
Thither the oppressed for freedom seek. 

From every dark benighted land ; 
Home of the brave, land of the free, 

Sheltered 'neath the starry dome, 
This canopy of liberty 

Protects thy temple home. 

She flings around these empire states. 

Her magic chain of purest gold ; 
From sea to sea, from gulf to lakes. 

Binds all in one unbroken fold, 
A brotherhood of stalwart men. 

Allied to freedom, truth and right ; 
Too strong to be enslaved again. 

Great in the majesty of might. 

Let trade her noblest tribute bring ; 

Let commerce pay her solemn vow ; 
Let learning spread her offering. 

And talent deck fair freedom's brow. 
Let wealth bestow its glittering wreath ; 

Let beauty waft her sweetest kiss ; 
Let fame its richest gift bequeath ; 

For all are due, and more than this. 



204 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

For what would be our boasted wealth ? 

Our fame would have no shadow's length, 
And where would be our country's health 

Had we no chartered rock of strength ? 
On this we stand, on this we build, 

Impregnable to battle shock, 
A fortress, by our fathers willed, 

Of quarried stone from Plymouth rock. 

Then shout ! ye sons of liberty. 

Till Heaven the echoing thunder hears ; 
This is the century's jubilee, 

The crowning climax of the years. 
Let music all her charms employ, 

Let all things blend in gladsome sound, 
Till one great thunder shout of joy. 

Enwraps the universe around. 

Not one centennial alone ; 

A century of centuries be ours ; 
Till from the temple's topmost stone 

Shall float the ensign of her powers. 
Strong in the glory of her might ; 

Brave in the maintenance of truth ; 
Fearless in the cause of right ; 

A nation of eternal youth. 

Then strike again the famed old bell. 

Ring out its praises far and wide ; 
Let every soul with music swell. 

Like one upheaving surging tide. 
To Him, who made us what we are, 

To Him we bow the reverent knee. 
All hail ! our country's beaming star ; 

All hail ! our Country's jubilee. 



''LIFT UP YOUR HEADS, OH YE GATES:' 205 



" Lift Up Your Heads, Oh Ye Gates." 

Psalm xxiv : 7. 

COME in, thou King of Glory. Come ! 
Ye everlasting doors, give way ; 
Lift up your heads — make room — make room, 

A King, shall be my guest to-day — 
He comes ! He comes ! the parting sky, 

Resounds with rumbling chariot wheels, 
The white-robed retinue on high. 

Proclaim it, with their trumpet peals — 
" Lift up your heads," I hear the cry, 

" Ye everlasting doors, give way," 
The King of Glory draweth nigh, 

He comes, to be my guest to-day — 
Stupendous condescension this — 

The King of Glory, visit me ? 
The thought o'erwhelms my soul with bliss, 

The King of Glory ! — can it be ? 
And yet, I dare not doubt the word. 

Despite my poverty and need — 
How can I entertain my Lord ? 

My lot is pitiable, indeed — 
No foot of land do I possess, 

No suited banquet can I bring ; 
Moneyless — friendless — -sad distress ! 

How shall I entertain a King ? 
My humble home bereft of store. 

To please the eye or cheer the heart, 
A King seeks entrance through my door, 

How shall I act a subject's part ? 
Ah, see ! the door swings open wide, 

The King of Glory cometh in, 



2o6 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

He enters, sits him by my side, 

Despite my tattered rags and sin. 
An honored guest— with shame I own. 

Nothing have I on which to dine, 
Nothing but crumbs to feast upon— 

" Enough," saith he, " My wealth is thine "- 
He sits him down my guest to be, 

Unbounded joy, his words impart— 
" I prize beyond all else," saith he, 

"A lowly and a contrite heart." 



VOSl THEE AND ME. 

BEHOLD the Lamb of God, 
For sinners slain ; 
Let men and angels laud 
That precious name. 
Slain for me and thee. 
Nailed to the shameful tree, 
For me and thee. 

See from his hands, his side, 

Water and blood ; 

Warm flows the crimson tide, 

A healing flood. 

See ! how the waters roll, 

Wide as from pole to pole. 

For thee, for me. 

God seems to pass him by, 

Angels are awed ; 

Night veils the mid-day sky, 

Devils applaud. 

Think they the victory won ? 

Hark ! " 'tis finished, 'tis done "- 

For thee and me. 



FOR ME— FOR ME. 207 

Jesus, the Lamb of God, 

Sits on the throne ; 

He bore the smiting rod, 

Bore it alone — 

His name is high o'er all, 

He hears the faintest call, 

He heareth me. 

Come, trembling sinner, thou. 
Do not delay ; 
Mercy awaits thee now — 
Come ye, to-day. 
Moments are rushing past. 
Night shades are gathering fast. 
Death rides upon the blast, 
Do not delay. 



rOR ME-rOR ME. 

r-OR me, oh. Lamb of God, for me. 
The cross was reared on Calvary ; 
My sins have helped to place it there. 
My heart admits a guilty share — 
O'erwhelmed with grief, beyond degree, 
I cry— Oh Lamb of God— /<7r me ! 

For me, oh Lamb of God, for me, 
I see thee nailed upon the tree ; 
I hear thy groan, I hear thy cry, 
' ' Eloi Lama Sabacthani. 
Oh why, I ask, must these things be ? 
The answer comes^/<3r me, for ■ine ! 

For me, oh, Lamb of God, for me — 
What means this grief, this shame I see ? 
What means the insulting scoffers' cry ? 



2o8 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

The rending- rocks, the darkened sky ? 
The heaving earth, the pitiless plea ? 
What means it ? Oh ! for me, for -tne ! 

For me, oh, Lamb of God, for me ; 
Thou bearest all this agony 
For me, thou freely laidst down, 
Thy kingly robe, thy glittering crown ; 
Son of the Highest ! Praise to Thee ! 
For lo ! thou didst it all, for me. 



Praise Waiteth for Thee, O God, in Zion. 

Psalm lxv : i. 

LET earth declare her only boast. 
Let angels swell their gladsome lays, 
To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, 
Be everlasting songs of praise. 

The mighty thunders grandly roll ; 

The lightenings set the skies ablaze ; 
From sea to sea, from pole to pole. 

Sweeps one eternal Hymn of Praise. 

Praise waits for Thee, oh Holy One, 
Thy name alone shall be adored. 

The Father, the Beloved Son, 

The Holy Ghost— one Faith, one Lord. 

Honor and glory— Power and Praise, 
Ascendeth, Triune God, to Thee, 

Almighty One, " Ancient of Days," 
Unceasing shall Thy praises be. 



PRAISE WAITETH FOR THEE, O GOD, IN Z ION. 209 

What though Thou art the Holy One, 

Enrobed in Light, whom none can see, 

In Light edipsing e'en the sun, 

E'en /may join in praising Thee. 

Stupendous condescension this, 

That I, a sinner saved by grace ; 
May mingle with the hosts of bliss. 

And cast my crown before Thy face — 

He stoops to notice even me, 

He listens to my plaintive cry. 
Hallelujah ! — this my plea, 

Jesus lives— I cannot die. 

He lives — He lives, a holy joy 

Thrills every fibre of my soul, 
Let praise my utmost powers employ. 

While countless ages onward roll. 

Before his throne, before his face— 

A sinner lost — a sinner found — 
A sinner dead — amazing grace ! 

A sinner saved, — a sinner crowned ! 



2IO THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 



God rorbid that I should Glory, Save \\\ the Cross." 

Gal. VI : 14. 

SAVE in the Cross, 
All, all is loss, 

All things are dross 

This is my glory, — 

This is my story, — 

My joy, my song, — 

While days roll on — 
A sacred charm, oh, blessed Cross, to me thou art ; 

A glowing radiance around my throbbing heart, 

A certain refuge from the subtle tempter's power, — 

A shield in every dark tempestuous hour ; 

A trusty anchor sealed by Jesus' blood, 

That holds my vessel fast, amid the roaring flood — 

Save in the Cross, — 

All gain is loss, 

All joy is pain, 

All hope is vain, 

Pleasure is shame, — 

And an empty name, 

And days as they go 

Are an empty show, 

And a tuneless song. 

And lo ! they're gone. 

My glory then 

By voice and pen, 

'Mid gain or loss, 

Shall be the Cross. — 
. And so, at last, 

When life is past, 

On it I rise 

To Paradise. 



A LITTLE LOCK OF MOTHER'S HAIR. 



A LITTLE LOCK OV MOTHER'S HAIR. 

A LITTLE lock of Mother's hair, 
Clipped from her snowy brow, 
Gray with toilsome years and care. 

Is all that's left me now, 
Yet there's no treasure can compare 
With this dear lock of Mother's hair. 

I hold it in my trembling hand, 
My eyes o'erflow with tears — 

Our dearest ties seem ropes of sand 
That crumble with the years. 

Plucked from the ruin my only share 

Is this dear lock of silvery hair. 

Speechless ! I can but gaze and weep, 

And bathe it with my tears. 
Yet nearest to my heart I keep 

This memory of years. 
This sweet memento, oh how fair ! 
This priceless lock of Mother's hair. 

Each silvery thread, enwraps a prayer, 

Enfolds a hidden sigh ; 
AfiFectioned tears, are crystalled there. 

Like gems of fadeless dye — 
Freely all I have, I spare. 
Save this dear lock of Mother's hair. 

Oh ! when I think of that fond heart. 
That beat so true for me. 



212 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

That tender look— a Mother's art — 

Which none could show but she, 
Sweet memory lays its chaplet there — 
This precious lock of Mother's hair. 

Where e'er in life my lot shall be, 

Dear Mother, day by day. 
Thy mirrored face and form, I see, 

In this dear lock of gray. 
Each silvery thread enwraps a prayer — 
This snowy lock of Mother's hair. 



"OH GRAVE! WHERE 15 THY VICTORY? 

I Cor. XV : 55. 

DOST thou exult, oh boasting grave ? 
Art thou the King of earth and sky ? 
Wilt thou rob God of that, he gave ? 

And then decree that it shall die ? 
Nay ! Nay ! Jehovah speaks, "it shall not be," 
"Oh grave ! Where is thy victory?" 

Oh grave ! wilt thou my treasures take 
Dost thou presume to mock my fears ? 

Dost thou deride the prayers I make, 

And pour contempt upon my tears ? — 

Ah, boastful grave ! faith laughs at thee 

And cries, — " Where is thy victory ?" 

Oh grave ! thou charnal house of death. 

Toward thee all human footsteps tread ; 

Upon thy verge we hold our breath, 
And pause awhile among the dead. 

Awhile to dream, till night shall flee — 

" Oh grave ! Where is thy victory ?" 



OH GRAVE! WHERE IS THY VICTORY? 213 

Dig deep, thy pit oh grave, and boast ; 

Claim, if thou wilt, unbounded sway : 
Thy visage is a lifeless ghost. 

Thy touch is naught but harmless clay ; 
Faith steals away thy vain decree — 
" Oh grave ! Where is thy victory ?" 

Wilt thou oh grave, blot out my sight. 
And sink me 'neath a flood of tears ? 

Or wrap me in the shades of night, 
The darkness of eternal years ? 

My Lord declares, it shall not be — 

"Oh grave ! Where is thy victory ?" 

Oh grave ! thy conqueror is near, 

His voice shall cleave thy matted sod, 

Though leagued with death, I will not fear 
My Lord shall break thy tyrant rod, 

Beneath his feet, is thy decree — 

" Oh grave ! Where is thy victory?" 

Oh grave ! thy threats, do not appall, 

Within thy shade I lose my dross, 
I'll stand upon thy crumbling wall. 

And wave the banner of the Cross ; 
I'll shout in glad, triumphant glee — 
" Oh grave ! Where is thy victory?" 

Oh blessed hope ! though dark the wave, 

That hides our loved ones from our sight, 

We sadly lay them in the grave, 
But only, for the passing night, 

My Lord shall give them back to me — 

Oh Grave ! Where thy boasted victory ? 



214 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 



"I IN THEM, AND THOU IN ME." 

John xvii : 23. 

WHAT strange mysterious words are these ? 
"//« them, and thou in me J' 
Herein, my inner vision sees 

A most transcendent mystery — 
Stupendous thought ! how can it be ? — 
"lin them, and thou in me." 

Eternal Saviour, gracious Lord 

Is my life, hid with God, in thee ? 

Is this the import of that word — 
"lin them, and thou in me ?" 

Yea, Jesus, Master, God in thee, 

And thou, the Blessed Son, in m,e! 

Who shall break this wonderous tie ? 

Who shall pluck my life from thee ? 
Can I perish, can I die, 

Since thou, oh Christ art fixed in me ? 
Nay ! Oh wondrous mystery ! 
"/z« thetn, and thou in m,eV 

Oh my Everlasting Lord, 

Ever deign to dwell in me, 
Sweetly let this living cord 

Bind, and keep me safe in thee. 
So shall men believe and see, 
God in Christ, and Christ in me. 



NINETY-SEVENTH REGIMENT, P. V. 215 



Monument of Ninety-Seventh Regiment, P. V. 

SAY not Chester falters in her love for the boys in blue, 
Who amid the battle thunders, proved fair Chester's courage 
true ; 
Who when treason grim and gory, flaunting down the crowded 

street. 
Trailed in dust the starry banner, trod it 'neath unhallowed feet. 

Who with loj'al heart and tender, brushed the tears from moisten- 
ing eye. 

Pressed a kiss of sweet affection, spoke the last long, sad, " good- 
bye ;" 

Who in heat and storm of battle, sabre flash and carnage flow, 

Bayonet charge and musket rattle, turned their faces to the foe. 

Nay ! my comrades, Chester never, can forget her noble brave, 
Who in time of gloom and danger, dared to face a cruel grave, 
Dared to stand in solid phalanx, like a living wall of flame, 
'Twixt their honored homes and loved ones — was their heroism 
vain ? 

Never ! Chester answers proudly, true her sturdy sons and sires. 
Who when treason lit her torches at satanic altar fires. 
Dropped the harrow and the trowel, buckled on the trusty sword, 
Rushed to snatch the starry banner from the taunting rebel horde. 

Nobly, valiant sons of Chester, from her hills and valleys came ; 
From the village, town and hamlet, from the wavy fields of grain. 
From the meadows green and flowery, from historic Brandywine ; 
From romantic Octoraro, to where Schuylkill's waters shine. 

From the classic tides of Delaware, to the vales of Honeybrook', 
Lo ! they came a loyal legion, e'en the earth beneath them shook, 



2t6 the amen corner AND OTHER POEMS. 

Without murmuring or pining, for the land they loved so well ; 
For the love of home and country, for the flag they fought and 

fell- 
See ! my comrades, yonder pillar,* pointing upward to the sky ; 
Grand memorial of the heroes who for country dared to die. 
See ! its apex bathed in glory, dazzling in the mid-day sun, 
Redolent with thrilling story of the glorious victories won. 

Spotless marble ! peerless beauty ! fitting emblem of the brave ; 
Eloquent of daring duty, done the nation's life to save, 
Gleaming in its polished splendor, like a light-house in the sea. 
Shedding forth its radiant glory, beacon light of liberty. 

Ah, my comrades ! tears will gather, as we scan the battle names. 
Fallen comrades, bravely sleeping, free from pang of battle pains ; 
Softly let your falling footsteps, tread the grassy sloping mound — 
Silent whispers of departed, spread a holy awe around. 

'Neath the sands of Carolina, where the waves wash Hilton 

Head, 
There they sleep in solemn stillness, camping with the silent 

dead — 
Where the guns of Fernandina, shake the rocky sea girt shore, 
Blending with a mournful cadence, with old ocean's hollow roar. 

Where the orange blossoms nestle, in the tangled flowery glade. 
There they lie in peaceful slumbers, 'neath the sweet entrancing 

shade- 
By the walls of Petersburg, on Cold Harbor's bloody plain, 
In the marshes of the James, at Fort Fisher's fiery rain. 

In the bivouac, and field, in the weather-beaten camp, 
On the sentry's lonely beat, on the weary toilsome tramp ; 
All along their path is crimsoned, by the sweat and blood of war ; 
All the way with aching footsteps, which so patiently they bore. 

* The Ninety-Seventh Monument, erected by the survivors of the regiment, 
in Marshall Square, West Chester, Pa. 



NINETY-SEVENTH REGIMENT, P. V. 217 

Into burning heats of summer, through the bleak untrodden snow, 
Through the gloom of dismal forest, o'er the river's angry flow, 
Into perils dark and fearful, on the land and on the wave ; 
Into prisons cold and hungry, thrust into a living grave — 

How they suffered, noble fellows ! worthy highest meed of praise, 
Well may Chester crown their memory, with a monumental blaze. 
Well may Chester rear yon pillar, with a majesty sublime ; 
As its token of affection, free from blighting touch of time. 

Crown the grand old "Ninetj'-Seventh," crown her with unfading 

fame, 
Crown her, for her tattered banners, breathe the glory of her name ; 
In the niche of Freedom's temple, draped in starry robes of light. 
She to unborn sons of Chester, speaks the valor of her might. 

Ah 1 the chiseled names, my comrades, graved on yonder pillared 

stone. 
Take us back in mournful memory, to the days of " sixty-one :" 
See ! the long array of battles carved upon the marble base, 
Lo, it stirs a thrill of honoi", even death cannot efface. 

Gazing up the towering summit, see yon sturdy sentinel stand, 
With a visage stern and solemn, with his rifle firm in hand ; 
As we scan his manly figure, see his ever sleepless eye. 
Let us pledge anew our honor, for the flag to live or die. 



2i8 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 



"Thou Shalt call his name JC5U5, for he shall save 
his people from their sins." 

MATT. I : 21. 

No name on earth like thine, Jesus, of kings, the king. 
Eternal praise to thee, Emmanuel, we bring 
To thee, to thee. Oh Saviour, day by day, 
Our richest treasures Upon thy Cross we lay. 
We count them loss, So we thyself may win — 

Poverty is wealth if JeSus reigns within. 
Pain is pleasure, And all is satisfied 

If Christ but Vouchsafe to be our guide. 
Oh, blest Saviour, Emmanuel, God with us, 
Jesus, Master, Saviour, be it ever thus ! 

Be it ever thus, Angels say amen 1 
God with us — let Men repeat the strain, 
Till heaven and Earth shall blend in sweet accord, 
In one glad soNg of praise to Christ, the Lord. 



FREE INDEED. 219 



rR[:E INDEED. 

John viii : 36. 

DOOMED to death, locked up in chains ; 
Bound hand and foot in death's dark cell 
By Satan held in slavish pains, 

I trembled on the verge of hell. 

My sins had locked my prison door, 

Thick darkness veiled my hopeless soul, 

I heard the quenchless fires roar, 
I saw the fiery judgment scroll. 

I read upon its burning face 

My own dread fate, my deep despair ; 
I saw the Judge in anger trace 

My just and fearful sentence there — 

" The soul that sinneth, it shall die " — 
I sank beneath my well-earned doom ; 

No ear of mercy heard my cry. 

No ray of hope could pierce my gloom. 

Thus, in death's dungeon, bound, I lay, 
My pangs no mortal tongue could tell, 

When lo ! a gleam of heavenly day 

Burst through the darkness of my cell. 

With mingled hope and trembling fear, 
I sprang to grasp the light I craved — 

A still small voice fell on my ear — 

" Look unto me, and be ye saved." 

Upward I glanced, from whence it came. 
No music ever seemed so sweet — 



220 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

I looked and lo ! my clanking chain 

Lay crumbling 'neath my trembling feet. 

'Twas Christ the Lord, whose voice I heard, 
'Twas he who bade my captors flee, 

My dungeon opened at his word. 
And I was set at liberty. 

His praise shall crown my every breath. 
His Name, thrill my adoring soul. 

His mercy, be my joy in death, 

My song, while endless ages roll. 

For though shut up in pains of hell. 
Helpless, hopeless, ruined, lost ! 

'Twas Christ who broke the horrid spell, 
And paid my ransom's countless cost. 



"LET THERE BE LIGHT." 

Gen. 1:3. 

'I ET there be light," Jehovah said, 
L And quick the pall of night departs. 
And earth, from out her watery bed. 
Into a day of glory starts. 

Let there be light " — the darkness flies. 

Obedient to divine decree, 
A radiance spans the arching skies, 

While darkening shadows backward flee. 

' Let there be light," the night is o'er. 

The long, long night of mystic doom, 
Floods of glory downward pour. 

And flood the black chaotic gloom. 



''LET THERE BE LIGHTS 

" Let there be light " — all nature gleams — 
Bars of strange supernal light, 
Beat back the tides, with golden beams, 
And hurl them into caves of night. 

" Let there be light " — tis day ! 'tis day ! 
The frigid shadows fear and fly, 
The icy barriers melt away, 

Beneath Jehovah's piercing eye. 

" Let there be light " — the earth is clad 

In robes of bloom, and verdant green, 
Her pulse beats warm, her heart is glad — 
She wakes as from a hideous dream. 

" Let there be light " — the light of life 

Drops from God's own open hand — 
Life jostles life, no jar, no strife. 

Life swarms in sea, and treads on land. 

" Let there be light ;" where once reigned death 
Now, swell the notes of life and song ; 
Voice answers voice, and breath hails breath, 
And nature greets a teeming throng. 

" Let there be light " — oh light ! break in, 
Within my darkness, glow and shine. 
Chase out the forms of death and sin. 
And flood my soul with light divine ! 



222 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



Miss MAUD DerUGHTY. 

lyilSS Maud DeFlighty was a dashing young Miss 

1 I Whose follies to her, were the acme of bliss, 

Who clad in the tinsel of fashion's array 

Found pleasure in nothing so much as display. 

She seemed to believe, fair nature's design, 

Was simply an effort to dazzle and shine. 

Like an atom of nothing, but vanity's glare, 

A bubble of beauty afloat on the air. 

Borne hither and thither by fashion and pride, 

Like a rudderless vessel adrift on the tide, 

Without anchor or compass, and not knowing where 

She might land at the last, nor seeming to care — 

Now Miss Maud DeFlighty went shopping one day 

With her friend Miss Sophia, also fond of display. 

For weeks they had talked of silks, satins, delains, 

'Twas their dream and their talk, till their unbalanced brains 

Were muddled with visions of glitter and glare, 

As empty as bubbles and as light as the air. 

They had searched fashion's papers until a huge pile 

Were scanned, to discover the latest new style 

From New York, and from Paris, they kept on the trot 

Just to find— well, they didn't exactly know what. 

They'd each received notice, on a gold tinted sheet, 

Of a fancy dress ball for the city's elite. 

So they set to preparing, to answer the call, 

And outdo the handsomest girls, at the ball — 

Their trunks and their wardrobes were full to the brim 

With every conceivable notion and whim, 

And yet they had nothing just suited to wear, 

"Out of style ! and too horrid to endure," they declare. 

So, each makes a sortie for dollars and cents. 

And besiege and assail, till papa consents, 



MISS MAUD DE FLIGHTY. 223 

Till a mountain of bills as high as Mount Blanc, 

Played havoc with papa's resources in bank. 

For the dear, sweet girls were bent on their shopping, 

To refuse them the cash would be " awfully shocking," 

Indeed, 'twould amount to a family curse, 

So, the dear papas tremblingly opened their purse — 

Thus fully equipped, and armed for the fray, 

They sauntered light-hearted, along Broadway. 

They gazed at this window, and then into that, 

Saying, " isn't that lovely ! just look at this hat ! 

With its feathers and ribbons, it's perfectly sweet," 

" I declare," said the girls, " sweet enough most to eat." 

And then, "see those silks, satins, brocades. 

Of exquisite beauty, and varying shades." 

" I declare !" said the girls, " it's just awfully grand, 

'Twould be nice to have all, if the funds were at hand." 

Now passing within, they long to survey. 

The o'erburdened counters with all their display. 

So venturing in through the bustling crowd. 

Of Vanity's daughters, so giddy and proud, 

'Mid rustling silks of most dazzling hue. 

Bespangled with furbelows all in review. 

And a glitter of follies of fashion displayed, 

Like a squadron of soldiers upon dress parade. 

They asked a pale, weary, perspiring clerk, 

O'erburdened and faint with wasting work, 

" Let us see your fine silks," and pack after pack 

Was spread on the counters, until a huge stack 

Reached up toward the ceiling all mustled and mixed, 

Topsy turvey, and tossed all about, and unfixed. 

But though with all colors, black, blue, pink and gray. 

There was nothing quite suited, 'twas too plain or too gay. 

Too high or too low, too thick or too thin. 

Too flashy, too old, or as ugly as sin. 

And so after spending an hour or two. 

In a wearisome search after silks that were new — 

" Let us look at your velvets," they smiling said. 

And soon the rich textures before them were spread. 



224 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

The soft glossy fabrics, the finest in store, 

Were looked through and through and scanned o'er and o'er, 

Now stroked up and down, then held toward the light, 

But somehow, they didn't just seem to be right. 

With a "hum!" and a "well !" scarce knowing what to say, 

They had wasted the whole afternoon of the day. 

With a grace that betrayed them to be true " upper ten," 

They repaid the poor clerk with, " we will see you again " — 

And so after looking and searching in vain, 

More perplexed still than ever, more muddled their brain, 

They resolved to start early the following morn, 

And devote all the day, even though it might storm, 

To a more thorough search for something to wear. 

That would dazzle and glitter, and sparkle and glare, 

Eclipsing, outshining, and even appall 

The fairest and prettiest girl at the ball— 

'Twas late the next morning, by rap after rap. 

Miss Maud DeFlighty awoke from her nap : 

'Twas just striking twelve, by the old stair clock 

Ere Maud De Flighty was ready to shop. 

With her friend Miss Sophia, who too just came in. 

They sauntered along as light as a pin, 

Into shop after shop, as if it were play, 

They repeat the success of the previous day, 

Till just as the sun was sinking from view 

They thought they'd discovered some goods that might do— 

The gay fabric was cut, e'en the salesman must stare 

As the young ladies said, " they had nothing to wear " — 

So after due time, 'mid impatience the while. 

The dresses were finished in unutterable style. 

They could scarce sleep a wink, their appetites gone, 

Till the day as appointed, for the ball, came on— 

At length the day came, and lo ! what a whirr. 

What a bustle and rustle, what a flurry and stir. 

Here were silks, there were satins, yonder, velvets were seen. 

There ribbons and laces, gause, tinsel, crepe du chien, 

Feathers, ruffles and cords, of all colors and shades, 

Bracelets and brooches, and glittering braids. 



MISS MAUD DE FLIGHTY. 225 

There were sweet-scented violets, cologne and poudrette, 

Roses, carnations and sweet mignonette, 

Until it would seem as if earth, sea and air, 

Had been searched by these ladies, for something to wear ; 

The whole day had been spent, till its last fading light, 

Had vanished behind the dark curtains of night — 

When a rumbling coach bearing ladies and all, 

Dashed over the stones, to the glittering ball. 

Ere long. Miss Maud meets a Count just from France, 

Who politely invites the young ladies to dance. 

Of course 'tis their pleasure, to ascend such a mount. 

For what can be grander than to dance with a Count. 

They go tripping and skipping with grace o'er the floor, . 

Like fairies whom even the gods must adore. 

Like butterflies flitting in the warm summer's ray, 

They sport in the sunshine of Vanity's play. 

'Mid the shadowy tints of the ball room's glare, 

There were none so bewitchingly flashy and fair 

As Miss Maud and Sophia, the belles of the dance, 

So indeed said the Count just lately from France — 

Still, on went the dance while round after round 

Darted hither and thither to the music's quick sound, 

Till the City Hall clock, tolled the hour of two, 

And still the fair maidens didn't seem to be through. 

The faint streaks of morning were tinting the east, 

Ere the mazy dance ended or the orchestra ceased. 

When Miss Maud, faint and wearied, and her dear friend Sophia, 

Began to think seriously 'twas time to retire. 

And so, though exhausted, they seem willing to pine, 

Because of the pleasure to dazzle and shine. 

Life's highest ambition is fashion and pride, 

And float like a bubble, on Vanity's tide. 

Till adrift on the rapids, toward the thundering sweep, 

Down ! down ! to the verge, and over they leap !— 

Where are they ? What are they? A meteor? A breath ? 

A moment of dazzle, in a whirlpool of death ? 

A soul wrapped in tinsel a glittering pawn ! 

A will o' the wisp, a flash, and 'tis gone— 



226 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Oh listen, fair maidens, life means more than play, 
Its days are too solemn to fritter away, 
Its moments are fleeting, alas, how they fly ! 
Is there nothing to do but to live and to die ? 
Is there nothing to do but to dazzle and glare ? 
Then drop into— ah ! sad echo says— where? 
Like Miss Maud— and Sophia— a vanishing breath, 
Whose Epitaph written, is dazzled to death. 



DO NOT WAIT. 

Gen. XIX : 17-19. 

DO not wait, the day is waning, 
Night is surely coming on. 
Few the moments yet remaining. 
Haste thee, ere the day be gone. 
Do not wait, oh do not wait ! 

Do not wait, the sun declining 
Sinks behind the golden gate. 

While the sunset ray is shining. 
Haste thee, ere it be too late. 
Do not wait, oh do not wait ! 

Do not wait, thy pulse is beating 
Silent marches to the grave, 

Death comes on, there's no retreating, 
Christ is waiting now to save. 
Do not wait, oh do not wait ! 

Do not wait, the Spirit calling 
Whispers silently within. 

Gently as the dew-drop falling 
Urging thee to flee from sin. 

Do not wait, oh do not wait ! 



CRUCIFIED WITH CHRIST. 22^ 

Do not wait, the judgment urges, 

Tarry not in all the plain. 
Haste thee from its fiery surges. 

Flee, the mountain height to gain. 
Do not wait, oh do not wait ! 

Do not wait, the Spirit pleading. 

Brings redeeming mercy nigh. 
He for thee is interceding. 

Wilt thou still refuse and die ? 
Do not wait, oh do not wait ! 



CRUCiriED WITH CHRIST. 

Gal. II : 20. 

JESUS, 1 am crucified with thee — thy agony is mine, 
Thy blood is on the Cross for me — my blood is thine. 
My joy, my woe, my bitter shame. 
Is laid on thee, oh, spotless Lamb. 

Jesus, I am crucified with thee — my life is thine. 
Nailed to the sharheful tree — thy death is mine. 
I live, and yet not I. I'm dead, 
Oh Christ ! Thou art my living head. 

Jesus, I am crucified with thee — dead to sin. 
So, let me ever be — thy life, within. 
Crucified with thee, oh, blessed Lord — 
Life eternal, is in that word. 

Jesus, I am crucified with thee — nailed to the Cross, 
Bound to the shameful tree — all else is loss. 
By it I rise from sin and death, 
From it I draw my vital breath. 



228 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Jesus, I'm crucified with ^h^^—ihou art my breath, 
Thy breath is life — my life is in thy death, 
I live, and yet not I, 'tis He. 
I die, I live, oh Christ, in thee. 

Jesus, my risen Lord, my living Head, 

Thy all transforming word puts life into the dead ; 

By death I shall from death be free — 

Thy blood is on the Cross for me. 



THE SEVENTY-nriH MILESTONE. 



To PATIENCE M. FELL, 12th Mo. 26, 1882. 



LIFE is a journey : night and day. 
The rugged hill of life, we upward climb ; 
The years like milestones, deck our way ; 
As mute reminders of the flight of time. 

One after another, thou hast passed ; 

Upborne by faith, preserved alive. 
Until by heaven's smile, thou art come at last 

To halt and rest, at milestone Seventy-five. 

Dost thou review the years gone by ? 

Doubtless they seem like a shadowy dream — 
Nay ! they are not shadows, though swift they fly, 

But fruitful boughs, by life's fair stream. 

'Tis well dear Patience, thus to muse, 

Upon the summit bower of life's unclouded height ; 
Thy radiant life, incites our faith to choose 

The quiet deeds, that make thy years so bright — 



ONE BY ONE. 229 

How sweet the lesson of a well spent life ! 

How rich the charm of holy faith and love ! 
How calm, amid the world's confusing strife, 

The '■' mind ; the light,'" whose source is from above. 

As thus we think of thee, we breathe the prayer. 

That everywhere ; abroad, at home: 
Thy family, friends, and loved ones ; all may share 

The blessing of thy presence for future years to come. 

And when the time must come ; a peaceful even. 

When thou hast reached the last mute milestone on thy way, 
A golden sunset ; the dawn of heaven ; 

A welcome, to the bliss of God's eternal day. 



ONE BY ONE. 



Dedicated to the fast departing Veterans of the late War 
of the Rebellion. 



ONE by one we bade a loved adieu, 
To clustered dear ones, 'round the hearth of home. 
With tender kiss, we pledged our faith anew. 

To shelter loved ones, 'neath the starry dome. 
But ah, alas ! tears fill our failing eyes- 
Full many a noble boy, spake then his last farewell, 
Far, far from home he whispered, 'neath unfriendly skies, 
" Tell my mother, her boy for freedom fell." 

One by one, they reached the silent shade ; 

The drums beat sadly 'mid solemn, mournful tread. 
The old flag folded gently, as we laid 

Them in the silent camp ground of the dead — 



230 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

There they lie ! in peaceful, honored rest, 

Because they died, the old flag floats to-day ; 

Unborn millions, shall speak their memory blest, 

And strew their graves with sweetest bloom of May. 

One by one, we miss the genial form, 

The old familiar voice, the sprightly cheer, 
The kindly hand shake, loyal, true and warm. 

Ne'er more to gaze into their faces here ; 
Ne'er more to cluster 'round the festive board. 

And join the greeting with songs of years gone by, 
When roar of battle flashed its flaming sword, 

And armies vowed the Nation shall not die. 

One by one death's shadows come and go ; 

Darkly they flash athwart life's beaten way. 
Like sombre spectres, in drapery of. woe ; 

With noiseless tread the live-long night and day. 
Tramp— tramp— tramp, the wierd battalions move 

With tireless feet, heavy, solemn, slow. 
Resistless, the massive columns prove, 

Heedless, heartless, unmoved by friend or foe. 

One by one brave comrades, we are mustered out ; 

Our ranks are thinning, alas, alas ! how fast. 
Stack your arms my comrades — face about ! 

Halt a little, hushed is the battle's blast. 
No more, the toilsome march, 'mid fiery flood. 

No more the battle roar, the angry yell ; 
No more the groan, the old flag rolled in blood. 

The ghastly plain, torn by shot and shell. 

One by one — 'twas so in sixty-one. 

The old flag hugged its mast, in blushing shame. 
Torn to shreds by treason's shotted gun, 

Trailed in dust amid the gathering flame. 



ONE BY ONE. 231 

One by one, they came a rushing host. 

With buoyant footstep, stalwart, loyal men. 

From lakes to gulf — from sea to farthest coast, 

Snatched the dear old flag and hauled it up again. 

But who is proof against the marksman — Death ? 

He lurks in ambush, takes unerring aim. 
His unseen rifle covers every breath. 

His silent shot cares not for worth or fame. 
One by one, 'mid life's exultant glow. 

E'en when laughter ripples, like a sunlit sea, 
Quick as a flash, the hidden, wily foe 

Cries, Halt ! Surrender ! to you— to me. 

Comrades, hark ! listen to the drum's slow beat. 

See ! they softly tread, the " Dead March " slowly plays. 
The old flag droops — a nation's winding sheet 

Enwraps a sleeping hero in its starry blaze — 
Ope wide your gates, ye cities of the dead, 

A hero comes — a nation's pride — make room ! 
Beneath the cortage let our tears be spread. 

And mark the resting place with ever fragrant bloom. 

Comrades, who is next, to hear death's bugle call ? 

The days are speeding bygone by one 
We're stepping from the ranks, our heroes fall. 

Soon 'twill be whispered — "Another soldier gone !" — 
Behold that starry banner ! Let it wave, 

Forever sacred, be that blood-bought trust, 
Sweetly sleep, brave comrades — 'twas yours to save — 

'Tis ours, to scatter roses o'er their dust. 



232 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



"THERE PEMAINETH THEREEORE A REST." 

"K lO foot of land do I possess, 
I ^ Nor cottage in this wilderness," 

This vale of tears and groans — 
No title deed to house or lot — 
Only a little lonely spot, 

To lay my weary bones. 

Ere since I trod earth's hardened soil. 
My life has been a day of toil 

To rid my path of stones. 
And still, my way seems rough and steep ; 
Oft I sigh, and even weep 

To rest my weary bones. 

How lonely is the path I tread, 

My friends — most all, are with the dead ; 

Alone ! my spirit moans. 
Oh, how I long to see their face, 
And lay me in that silent place ; 

And rest my weary bones. 

But ah ! if this were all of life. 
Where is the recompense for strife ? 

What mean these sighs and groans ? — 
Hark ! from o'er the surging roar, 
I hear a voice — "There's something more, 

Than rest, for weary bones." 

Ah yes ! a rest of holier art, 

A rest for aching head and heart, 

Beyond this darksome even. 
Where I shall meet my loved again. 
Beyond the toiling and the pain, 

'Tis rest — sweet rest, in heaven. 



" IT IS 1 BE NOT afraid:' 233 



" IT IS I, BE NOT ArRAID." 

John vi : 20. 

THE tempest roars, the wild winds madly sweep, 
And lash to fury the Galilean sea ; 
Hither and thither upon the stormy deep 

The fierce waves dash and rave in angry glee. 
A little ship seems verging to its tomb ; 

Aboard, the Lord's disciples are terrified, dismayed, 
When lo a voice comes through the darkening gloom, 
They listen, hark ! " It is I, be not afraid." 

A strange sweet calm subdues the boisterous wave. 

The winds are hushed, the billows go to sleep. 
The Master spake, in vain the billows rave. 

He speaks and lo ! the heaving deep 
Becomes a level plain, a glassy floor. 

On which the Master treads in friendly aid, 
And high above the seething tempest's roar. 

Is heard that tender voice — "// is I, be not afraid:' 

And so in darkest night — when tossed and torn 

Upon the angry billows of life's tumultuous sea. 
Amid the breakers of a howling sea, of storm, 

And the gathering gloom that heeds no human plea, 
Ready to perish, and sink into the deep, 

Hope almost gone, forsaken, and dismayed, 
There comes across the heaving, billowy sweep, 

A still small voice — " It is I, be not afraid. ", 



234 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 



"ONLY BELIEVE." 

MARK 5 : 36. 

"/^NLY believe''' believe, 
vJ Fear not, tis Christ the Lord ; 
He comes the guilty to receive. 
Fear not, believe his word. 

" Only believe,''^ believe, 

Thou needst not doubt nor fear ; 
Jesus is able to relieve. 

His promise is, to hear. 

" Only believe,'" believe. 

Art thou a sinner lost ? 
Dost thou o'er slighted mercies grieve ?- 
He paid thy ransom's cost. 

" Only believe,'''' believe. 

Though steeped in guilt and sin, 
His word cannot thy hope deceive, 
Thou hast a friend in Him. 

" Only believe,'' believe. 

Come now without delay. 

No longer fear, no longer grieve. 

The Saviour calls to-day. 

" Only believe," believe. 

Make now thy humble plea ; 
Do not his gentle spirit grieve. 
He longs to welcome thee. 

" Only believe," believe. 

Faith is the Spirit's breath. 
Come ! life, eternal life receive, 
To disbelieve is death. 



"A VERY PRESENT HELPy 235 



"A VERY PRESENT HELP." 

Psalm xlvi : i. 

How dear thy promise, Lord, to me, 
When faith is weak, this word I plead— 
" A \&ry present help " is he, 

In every time of conscious need. 

When worn by toil, I look to thee. 
And this the promise that I plead, 

" A very preseftt help is he," 

In every time of conscious need. 

When griefs assail and pleasures flee, 

And earth seems dark and drear indeed- 

How sweet ! " & present help is he," 
In every time of conscious need. 

Life's burdens press so heavily, 

I fain would from them all be freed, 

But ah ! this promise comes to me — 
" A present help in time of need." 

So then, I lean, dear Lord, on thee ; 

Do thou my faltering footsteps lead. 
Be thou " a. present help to me," 

Oh, Lord ! in every time of need. 

Cheer up, my soul ! be this thy plea — 
He faileth not, his word to heed, 

" A very present help is he," 

In this, and every time of need. 



236 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



IN MEMORIAM— MARY A. STITCLER. 

ABSENT from the body," the frail casket void ; 
The spirit loosed from its fragile house of clay, 
By angel bands encompassed and convoyed 

To realms, where death shall bear no longer sway. 
Where fadeless youth and joys supreme are given, 
A cloudless day— a blissful rest, in heaven. 

" Absent from the body," calm, serene, 

A gentle closing of the eyes in sleep. 
Like one entranced, enraptured by a dream, 

Lies down, unconscious of the niglat winds' sweep — 
Like one who hears a voice, above earth's noisy din, 

" Come higher, weary pilgrim. Come in ! Come in !" 

"Absent from the body," so long the house of pain ; 
Earth hath no rest, its pleasures quickly flee ; 
Grieve not, our loss is her sure gain — 

She seems to whisper, " Loved ones, wait for me." 
'Tis but a little while, a sigh, and all is o'er. 
The greeting cometh again to part no more. 

" Absent from the body," adieu ! adieu ! 

Farewell, dear loved ones, do not weep for me ; 
The shadowy vale I've passed, and bursting on my view 

The shining streets and jasper walls I see. 
I hear the golden harps, attuned to sweetest chord — 
"Absent from the body— present with the Lord." 



SUPER ANNUA TED. 237 



SUPERANNUATED. 

THE Bishop stood within the bar, so dignified and slow, 
And read aloud each Preacher's name and where he was to go ; 
A solemn stillness brooded o'er, the crowded Conference room, 
And all were wrapped in speechless awe, as if 'twere day of doom. 

One by one the names were called, each longed to hear his fate : — 
"Father Jones," the Bishop said, "is superannuate.^^ 
"Though earnest, faithful, true and pure, his talents brightly burn, 
But, age comes on, and powers fail, the work is hard and stern. 

Painful as the facts may be, we must accept the truth ; 
The pressure comes from every side, for eloquence and youtk ; 
The people call for sprightly men, 'tis everywhere the rage, 
And veterans must be set aside, for men of younger age " — 

These words sank down like molten lead, tears dimmed the old 

man's eye, 
'Twas like a sudden lightning flash, from out a cloudless sky ; 
The gray-haired veterans of the Cross, long shepherds of the flock, 
Seemed shaken by a mighty wind, and quailed beneath the shock. 

The Bishop took his cushioned seat, while strange emotions swept ; 
Like billows of a raging sea, and old men shook and wept ; 
For they were treading toward the verge, of life's eventful span. 
When soon it would be said of them, " we want a younger man.^' 

Silently the preachers sat, each loath to break the spell. 

Till Father Jones, whose heart was full, with words he longed to 

tell. 
Felt moved to take the Conference floor, submissive to his fate — 
He scarce believed, the Lord had made, him superannuate. 



238 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

" My brethren, has it come to this, must I be set aside ? 
Is there no work for me to do ? " and then the old man sighed, 
The tear drops chased each other down, his pale and sunked cheek, 
And strange emotions choked the words, the dear old man would 
speak. 

" For fifty long eventful years, I've stood on Zion's wall. 
And shouted out into the gloom, the joyful gospel call ; 
I've held aloft the gospel lamp, to light the sinner home, 
And urged the home-found prodigal, no longer forth to roam." 

" I've toiled amid the wintry snow, and in the summer's heat ; 
I've borne the banner of the Cross, where e'er have trod my feet : 
Into the howling wilderness, beside the flooded stream. 
The cot and hut, the vale and street, have felt the gospel beam," 

"I've never shunned a startling truth, I've made the message plain, 
I've sought no worldly honor, I have never preached for gain, 
I've labored only for the soul, and preached the simple word. 
With but one recompense for all, the glory of the Lord " — 

"Ah ! Bishop, what though age creeps on, toward life's allotted 

score. 
There's none more eager for the work, upon the Conference floor. 
Though powers fail, and work be hard, shall any be so bold. 
To say, that God withdraws his call, because a man is old !" 

" 'Tis true, I've reached the summit peak, of Zion's toilsome hill, 
My faith is clear, my purpose strong, to do my Master's will ; 
I have no wish to quit the field, nor lay my armour down. 
Ere yet the victory is won, I look not for the crown." 

" I've yet a litde strength to wield, the spirit's glimmering sword, 
I wear the gospel panoply, a soldier of the Lord ; 
And must I at the call of man, fling down my battle shield. 
And beat a cowardly retreat, and flee the battle field?" 

" Must I while throbs this beating heart, repress my vital breath. 
And seek with an inglorious haste, an ambulance of death ? 



'' IF CHILDREN, THEN HEIRSr 239 

Nay rather let me march along, till death shall lay me low ; 

I've pledged the Lord to keep the field, while I can see the foe." 

" When Jesus said, ' Go preach the word,' and ' feed my chosen 

flock,' 
I never thought while strength remained, that I would have to 

stop — 
Are we beset by evil times, can we dismiss our fears ? 
Alas ! my brethren, do we serve, a church with ' itching earsf " 

" Ah, brethren ! fate may coldly frown, upon our whitening hairs. 
And younger men may crowd us out, regardless of our prayers, 
Still, we can ne'er give up the thought, our calling's glorious 

boast — 
There are no Superannuates in God's embattled host." 



"ir CHILDREN, THEM HEIRS." 

ROM. VIII : 17. 

IF children— heirs "—delightful thought, 
As toiling in life's weary lot ; 
'Mid heaping cares, and earthly loss, 
'Mid empty glare, deceit and gloss. 
We wearily trudge life's rugged road. 
Upward toward a blest abode — 
" If children— heirs." 

" If children— heirs "—Oh, blessed joy. 
This world is but a fading toy ; 
Our days are shadows, and our years 
Fly swift away, bedewed by tears. 
Joys dispersed and efforts vain. 
Yet blessed hope — despite our pain — 
" If children — heirs." 



240 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Heirs of all my Lord doth own, 
Earth and heaven— kingly throne. 
Crowns of glory — harps of gold, 
Life eternal— joys untold. 
Heirs of God, to wealth unknown — 
Behold ! 'tis written, on the throne — 
" If children — heirs." 



VOLAPUK. 

WHEN the tower of Babel looked up toward the sky. 
Before the huge walls were complete, 
They knew but one language, to which we apply, 
The musical name " Volapuk." 

But a slight little trouble occurring one day, 

They had to stop work, so to speak, 
And drop all their tools and hurry away, 

Because they forgot " Volapuk." 

And from that day to this men have been on the search. 

For that long lost Volapuk, 
Like the search for the Fleece, they are still in the lurch 

'Tis not in the language we speak. 

For, as much as we prize our dear mother tongue, 

Whose words we first learned to lisp. 
The language whose praises so often we've sung. 

Is a sort of a "will o' the wisp." 

No wonder the school boys vainly try. 

To solve the grammatical plot, 
'Tis a troublesome puzzle more hard to untie, 

Than the famous old "gordian knot." 



VOLAPUK. 

False is not faults, adore is no door, 

Neither is pain a pane, 
Eight is not ate, and fore is not four 

And rein can never be rain. 

'Tis folly to say that an arc is an ark. 

Or to say that ascent is assent, 
A mark is no marque, though made by A. Mark, 

Having sense without even a cent. 

Ewe may be ewe, but you are not yew, 

To be able may never be Abel, 
A flue is no flew, and due is not dew, 

To be stable, is never a stable. 

A bow is not beau, and a bough is not bow, 

'Tis only the freak of the speller, 
To steal is not steel, and a row is no row. 

And a seller can never be cellar. 

A liar's no lyre, and a lie is not lye, 

And a pair is never a pear, 
, Nose is not knows, and aye is not eye, 
We need air but not any heir. 

One born without toes, may be robbed of his tow, 
Though hale, we may never be hail ; 

Dough is not doe and sew is not so. 
And a whale is never a wail. 

Meat must be meat and mete is not meet. 

Rite can never be right. 
Blue is not blew, and feet can't be feat, 

And night can never be knight. 

Aunt is no ant, and belle is no bell, 

My awl cannot be my all ; 
To say I am well, doesn't make me a well, 

And a ball, cannot be a bawl. 



241 



242 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

To kill is not kiln, and a phial is no file, 
And a bill that is due, is not dew ; 

A wrap is no rap and an isle is no aisle, 

And a thing may be new, but not knew. 

Cite may be cite, and sight is not site, 

A tier is never a tear ; 
To haul is no hall, and alight is not light, 

I can say I am here, but not hear. 

A horse is not hoarse, and hay is not hey. 

Neither a bee a be ; 
Bear is no bear, and slay is no sleigh, 

The sea can never be see. 

So our noble old English we all must concede. 
So grand in its glory and might. 

Is still such a language we none of us knead, 
For to right it, we can't write it rite. 

Thus amid the confusion of voices we hear. 
And the bab^l of words that we speak. 

To tear them asunder occasions no fear. 
If it only brings back " Volapuk." 



JEEMS' NEW BEAVER HAT. , 243 



JEEMS' NEW BEAVER HAT. 

[VI E and Jeems bin a livin together, nigh unto forty years, 

I I An it hezn't bin all sunshine either, theres bin sum clouds an 

tears, 
Like most of married folks, its bin, sumtimes up, then down, 
Siimtimes I weep, he'd lafiF, sumtimes I'd laff— he'd frown ; 
But there never was nuthin serus — 'ceptin once, we had a little 

squall — 
We was a bilin apple sass, one stormy day in the fall. 
Jeems was a stirrin the kittle, an noddin once in a while, 
"Jeems," sez I, " yer sleepin, an lettin them apples spile," 
It teched him, an he flung around his cane. 
An knocked the kittle off, the swingin chimley crane. 
The apple sass was spiled — but, thats bin long ago, 
But it goes to show how queer men is, — still, they'se human I 

know, — 
Now Jeems was raised a Quaker — this time, he lost control, 
Beein quick tempered an awkerd, still, he was a good natered 

soul — 
He seldom went to meetin, an reely I must say 
He was gittin to be a heathen, because of his stayin away. 
So I sez to him one Sunday — "Jeems, yer doin wrong, 
Stayin away from meetin, so very, very long. 
Git on yer broad brim beaver, an go with me to-day. 
There's a goin to be a stranger in the pulpit — so they say " — 
He studied a bit and then sez he — "my clothes is out of style," — 
Howsumever, he went, an goin in, we strutted up the ile, 
My arm in his'n, his big hat on, an a dredful screechin shoe, 
The sextant cum and sot us down, rite in the formost pew, 
Jeems kept a lookin all around, sez he, " they'se mity stylish here, 
They'se got a stavin organ, an winders painted queer" — 
"Sakes !" sez I — "don't talk so loud, take off that beaver hat, 
This aint a Quaker Meetin," sez he — " Well wot of that ? 



244 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Aint Quakers good as Methodis, an jis as quiet too ? 
Hats don't make no noise — this'n of mine's most new." 
Jis then the sextant cum an sez— " Friend, take off that hat, 
This is a Methodis Meetin-house, don't you know where you are 

at?" 
Jeems took it off an laid it down, beside him in the pew, 
I pitied him, he looked as if, he didn't know wot to do, 
I was afeared he'd git his temper up an talk rite out aloud. 
An I didn't want him to act that way afore that stylish crowd — 
Jis then the organ started in, an he turned hisself around, 
Sez he, "thats a whopper, isn't it? an it hes a charmin sound, — 
And while his hed was turned a lookin, a man stepped in the pew 
All unbeknown to us, fer the empty seets was few. 
An he sot rite down never lookin, this way ner that. 
Rite square on top of Jeems new broad brim beaver hat — 
Smashed ? Of course it was — law sakes ! then there was a show, 
Jeem's temper ris to once — reely, I never seen him so. 
He stood strait up, an stared that man, completely through an 

through — 
But as luck would have it, jis then, the stranger left the pew. 
My ! but I felt relieved— I cum neer havin a fit, 
When Jeems sot down, that meetin-house, seemed heaven fer a 

bit. 
But he was most dredful nervous. Sez he, " Wot's comin next ?" 
Jis then the preacher rose and told 'em, where to find the text. 
I don't remember jis the words, but if memory serves me rite, 
'Twas, " don't be crossin bridges afore they git in site." 
Sez he, " There's lots of people round a lookin pale and thin, 
Jis cause they'se worryin all the time, to smile, they think is sin. 
They'se wishin fer sumthin they haint got, an never spect to git, 
An if they git it, even then, they'se not contented yit " — 
Jeems turns hisself an gives me a nudge, "Tildy," sez he, "that's 

you, ' ' 
An he sed it so loud— the folks all looked, strait at our pew. 
I didn't say nuthin, fer 'twas no use, but, I tried my best to smile. 
With one eye on the preacher, and tother on Jeems the while. 
The preacher's words were searchin and sharp as a pinted nail, 
And shook them saints and sinners like vessels in a gale. 



TWENTIETH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. 245 

He was gittin near the endin — sez he, " afore I close, 

I want to say a word or two, 'bout sum other folks I knows — 

They wear good hats and clothes an try to be perlite, 

But they'se got most offal tempers— my friends, it isn't rite — 

They'se crossin bridges continerally, and when they think they're 

through. 
They turn around and blow em up — sich men as them, won't do." 
Thinks 1, it's my turn now, I give Jeems a nudge or two, 
Sez I, an I whispered softly — " There Jeems," sez I, " that'sj)/o«." 
An his face turned red an purple, but reely, I had to smile, 
Fer he looked as if he wished hisself, away mor'n a mile — 
Well, the meetin broke, an we started home, I'll never forgit that 

day, 
Jeems was dredful worried, an he hadn't a word to say. 
Till we got in the house, when Jeems, sez he — " jis see that beaver 

hat"— 
I never could git him to go with me, to the meetins after that. 



A Printer's Twentieth Wedding Anniversary.^ 

JUST twenty years ago, one cold December night, 
The bleak wind sighed 
And strove to hide 
Its frozen tears from the Wintry sprite. 
But the spectral shade had come from the north 
To scatter diamonds back and forth 
Until the glittering pearls were strewn 
Profuse as dewy flowers of June. 

But why all this ? What means it, pray ? 

The winds reply, 

I'll tell you why ! 
There's a bridal couple, blithe and gay ; 

* Isaac G. Alexander and wife, of West Chester, Pa. 



246 777^ AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Gaily they tread the shivering street — 
• " I come to spread beneath their feet 
A glittering carpet, warp and woof, 
Beneath a star-bespangled roof." 

But there's the Parson at the door — 

He enters in 

Lo ! What a din ! 
Two beating hearts beat fast, and more — 
'Tis the Bride and Groom, whom none can guess, 
How easily they both say, " Yes." 
To speak the word, 'twas simply fun 
That made them both, though two, but one. 

Full twenty years have come and gone, 

Since up the slope, 

With buoyant hope, 
And hand in hand, they've journeyed on — 
Don't they look as spry as they did of yore ? 
Why, yes ! and good for twenty years more. 
There are those whose honeymoons quickly set, 
But theirs shines on, resplendent yet. 

Alexander the First cut the Gordian knot ; 

Alexander the Second, 

More wisely reckoned, 
For the bridal knot yields not a jot — 
At least, here is one bids defiance to sword, 
It can neither be cut, untied, or ignored — 
Two hearts tied together by such magic art 
No power on earth can pull them apart. 

No wonder friends gather to share in the joy 

Of connubial bliss. 

'Tis never amiss, 
Good wishes, bright smiles, do never annoy ; 



TWENTIETH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. 247 

'Tis an omen of happiest cheer and delight 
To welcome so many, this jubilant night. , 

There are friends yet to come, friends sturdy as oaks. 
Too timid to venture 'mong such good-looking folks. 

Ne'er for a moment is a shadow of doubt, 

There are friends, not a few, 

Friends good and true. 
Who've made up their minds not to be counted out, 
And so they may doubtless, drop in, by and by 
To help us make merry, and who will deny ? — 
Ah, here is one now ! Why, 'tis aunt Tildy Jane ; 
She's a dear old body, but awfully plain — 

" Lawzee ! Isaac, what on airth's goin on? 

Sich a racket and din ; 

Gittin married agin ? 
Why, if I'd knowed all this, I'd brought my John — 
Livin out in the outskirts of old Sconnelltown, 
It's hard to keep posted unless yer aroun. 
Them lightnin cars don't stop at our gate. 
And that's jist the reason I'm gittin here late. 

Why, there's Emily now ! Why 'pon my life ! 

If I'd hadn't seen her 

Amid all this stir 
I'd a thought Ike was gittin' his second new wife. 
But I thought that was queer, if that could be true, 
For I never seed a couple more lovin' did you ? 
And, I really believe, so true they hez bin. 
That you couldn't git either to marry agin." 

Ah ! here is another — Patrick McCool — 

" Good evenin' all ! 

I thought I would call. 
Please give us yer pardin' if I'm brakin' a rule, 
I'll be afther sayin' one thing — I'm mad— 
If yees had sint me a litter my Biddy'd bin glad, 



THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

And we'd both bin as happy as in an old Irish wake, 
And she'd baked you a good old Corkonian cake." 

And here's still another ! Hanse Yacob Von Strauss. 

" Ha ! Ha ! Dot is queer ! 

Vot goes on here ? 
I shust now comes oudt vom de plackschmit house ; 
Mein Katerine say, I recolmemper shust now, 
Ven Isak Axander vosh marry his frau — 
Vosh twenty years go, und a nice, vindy night ; 
But it didn't sthop dem, oh no ! vosh all right." 

Well, I declare ! here's a " Heathen Chinee," 

With his long-plaited queu 

And his wooden-soled shoe. 
Hear what he says of mine, and me — 
" I wellee much wishee I was Melican man, 
I would havee nice wifee as soone I can. 
My heartee much achee, I wellee sad, 
I can't find girlee to make me glad." 

Oh, my ! Here's e'en the printer's d-e-v-i-l, 

So iniquitous, ubiquitous, 

Felonious, brimstonious. 
His dark mystic traits, e'en a printer can't tell — 
His horns are concealed ; but a glance serves to show 
A newspaper printed just twenty years ago. 
With a mischievous twinkle of his sinister eye. 
He presents to the host a well-baked printer's pi. 

But where shall we pause in this roll-call of friends ? 
Twenty years it's been forming. 
And it would take us till morning 
To call all the names, or tell where it ends ; 
But this we will do— we will wish them good cheer. 
The merriest Christmas, and the happiest New Year ; 
The brightest and best, without sorrow or sigh, 
And a home that is fadeless in the sweet bye-and-bye. 



FOR ME TO LIVE IS CHRIST:' 249 



"rOR HE TO LIVE 15 CHRIST." 

Phil, i: 21. 

a r::.OR me to live is Christ," all else is vain ; 
■ There is no comfort, ease or gain 

Apart from him. 
His name is music's most entrancing tone, 
Is sweetness, sweeter than the honey comb, 

A balm within. 

"For me to live is Christ," no earthly bliss beside, 
Can be so cheering, or half so long abide 

As joy in him. 
Let griefs assail, or healthful vigor fade, 
Life's sunny path pass into deepest shade, 

There's calm within. 

" For me to live is Christ," my daily toil 
Is rest and ease, amid the world's turmoil, 

Its daily din. 
From morn till eve, through every passing hour, 
I sit in holy calm, in heaven's rosy bower, 

With Christ shut in. 

" For me to live is Christ," all day long 
My pathway echoes Christ, my song, 

I walk with him. 
I am not lonelj', with Jesus as my guide. 
Contented with my lot, my wants supplied. 

His throne within. 

" For me to live is Christ," though friends forsake ; 
Though earth's foundations 'neath my footsteps shake, 
I'm safe with him. 



250 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Though loved ones die, and earth seems cold and drear, 
In every trial, his presence still is near, 
I walk with Him. 

" For me to live is Christ," when strength is gone, 
And earthly friendships fail, and death comes on, 

I'm hid in him. 
In him, my ransom, by the life he gave ; 
My victory in.dying, my triumph o'er the grave ; 

A crown I win. 



"THERE 15 NOTHIN LIKE THE MONEY." 

WHEN we were married Zekel, why we didn't have a cent, 
Jist enough to pay the preacher, nothin left for board or rent. 
But we both went right to work, and we did the best we could, 
I took in washing by the day, and you, to splitting wood. 

A many a time we sat around, the old unpainted board. 
With nuthin but a crust of bread, 'twas all we could afford. 
But Zekel, we didn't starve, we kept our spirits up, 
And if we didn't live on pie, we'd something in our cup. 

I well remember, once 'twas so, you'd nuthin 'tall to do. 

The times were dull, and work was scarce, and dead of Winter too, 

We had a few potatoes left, and one small loaf of bread. 

It seemed to me I couldn't tell, which way to turn my head. 

'Twas hunger starin in the face, we both began to fret. 
But Zekel, that's been long ago, and we are livin yet. 
We kept a toilin, on and on, we paid our board an rent. 
And though we tried our very best, we couldn't save a cent. 

The children cost us both a heap, to keep them on the track. 
But then we don't begrudge the cost, they've more'n paid us back, 



" THERE IS NOTHIN LIKE THE MONEY:' 251 

We sent the oldest gal to school, to eddicate her mind, 
And she's the smartest of the lot, they say, the most refined. 

You know how 'twas two years ago, the Banker's only son, 

He took a likin to the gal, till both were nearly one ; 

The only trouble in the way— it seemed so very funny. 

The old folks said the girl was poor, her people had no money. 

And so our Sary didn't wed, although her heart was pure, 
Because of that besettin sin, the sin of being poor — 
If there's a thing deserves the name, of everlasting curse, 
It seems to be that dreadful thing, they call an empty purse. 

That must be that unpardonable sin, we read of in the book, 
That's wusser than an evil name, or than an ugly look. 
Far wuss than yaller fever, or cholera and sich— 
The wussest failin you kin have, is failin to be rich. 

So it was two years ago, when Sary's stylish beau, 
Went off because the gal was poor, and couldn't make a show, 
And when they'd meet her in the street, they'd look another way, 
But break their necks to speak to gals, alooking grand and gay. 

But Zekel, what a change has come, jis like a sudden flash. 
Since Aunt Sophia's dead and gone, and willed us lots of cash. 
Almost afore we knowed ourselves, somehow, they found it out— 
They seem to smell the tarnal stuff, whenever it's about. 

Like flies alightin on a sore, partickler if it's runny. 
They come a flockin all around, wherever there is money — 
The banker's son the other day asked Sary for a chat, 
I reely thought he'd break his neck, a takin off his hat. 

And there's our Betsy, lame and gray, I never thought she'd go, 
She even had that Doctor Brown to offer as a beau, 
And so when^e'er the gals go out a walkin, or to shop. 
There's scarce a rich young man in town that doesn't want to stop. 



252 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

They bow and scrape, and nod and smile, and stare and grin and 

gawk. 
And act as if they really were a dyin for a talk ; 
I spect it wouldn't matter 'tall, good looks might go to smash, 
Our gals can all git husbands now, because they've got the cash. 

Why Zekel, don't it strike you queer ? When we were poor and 

lone, 
We weren't nuthin anyway, but friendless and unknown ; 
But we've found out a thing or two, it's 'mazin queer and funny — 
To kiver up the ugly spots there's nuthin like the money. 



WHAT SHALL WE DO WLI H OUR BOYS? 

WHAT shall we do with our boys ? 
Is a problem that puzzles the age ; 
No question makes half so much noise 

As this, on the National stage. 
The Chinese, the Freedmen, stocks, railroads and toys 
Are nothing, compared with this question of Boys. 

'Tis a question perplexing to mothers, 

They worry and fret all the day. 
The hours more weary than others, 

Are when the boys come from their play. 
When mamma says, "now be very still boys," 
'Tis then, they are certain to make the more noise. 

They keep up a racket and yell. 

They hammer, and bang, rip and tear, 

Topsy turvy, and noisy pel-mel. 

Is the rule they adopt everywhere. 

Pies, sugar and cakes, and the daintiest pile * 

Aren't safe from the boys, they scent them a mile. 



WHAT SHALL WE DO WLTH OUR BOYS? 253 

They sport in the mud and the dirt, 

The dirtier the higher their joy, 
They think it is wise to be pert — 

A very queer thing, is a boy, 
He smokes his tobacco and chews all he can. 
Then imagines himself quite a specimen man. 

But, boys will be boys, so they say. 

Yet there's one certain thing they are needing — 
To make them respect and obey 

The lessons of honest good breeding — 
'Tis a gentle coercion, you'll agree without search, 
And then if 'tis needful, a little more birch. 

Perhaps, boys have a right to be thus, 

'Twas intended they should make a noise. 

For say what you will, of their fuss, 

'Twould be a poor world without boys, 

So, in spite of their follies and dominant will, 

Though others may scold 'em the girls love 'em still. 

But boys have their troubles as well, 

Their balls and their bats go astray. 
The laws that enforce and compel, 

Are a nuisance to them, so they say. 
Just give them a chance to govern the Schools, 
They'd make spit balls of books, and foot balls of rules. 

But boys, take advice from another, 

Be honest, be faithful and true. 
And honor both Father and Mother, 

And honor will come unto you. 
Be temperate, and brave, amid life's busy noise, 
And the country is safe and so are the boys. 



254 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

ARE YOU READY? 

MATT. XXIV : 44. 

ARE you ready, are you ready, for the coming of the Lord ? 
Are you waiting, are you watching, are you listening for the 
word 
That shall burst the graves asunder, and the sleeping saints arise, 
And together with the living, go to meet him in the skies, 
Are you ready ? 

Are you ready ? Hark ! what means it ? hear you not the thunder 

roll? 
Lo ! it shakes the very heavens, and the earth from pole to pole, 
Oceans lash their waves in fury, there is tempest in the air, 
Nations harnessed for the battle, flash their sabres everywhere. 
Are you ready? 

Are you ready, trembling pilgrim, are you ready for the call ? 
Should he come this night or noonday, or when evening shadows 

fall ; 
Do you look for his appearing in the cloudy vail arrayed ? 
Are you ready, will you hear it, when the midnight cry is made ? 
Are you ready ? 

Are you ready, fainting pilgrim, is your burden hard to bear ? 
Patience ! just a little longer — there's a tremor in the air ; 
Strange, portentous, like the treading of an army vast and strong, 
Hasting onward to the rescue, to o'erthrow the hosts of wrong. 
Are you ready? 

Are you ready, anxious pilgrim, do you tremble for the fate 
Of the ark, amid the battle, with satanic might and hate ? 
Lo ! he Cometh, robed in glory, he whose right it is to reign. 
Tremble not beloved disciple, faith and hope are not in vain. 
Are you ready ? 



ARE YOU READY? 255 

Are you ready ? do you wonder, why he tarrieth so long ? 
Why the Church should be so feeble, and the evil be so strong? 
Why, through tears and tribulation and through bloody seas of 

death. 
Must the ' ' Little Flock ' ' unwavering, strive to keep its vital breath . 
Are you ready ? 

Are you ready, hoping, trusting ? See ! the mighty Angel stand, 
With one foot upon the ocean, and the other on the land : 
With uplifted hand declaring, like a mighty thunder roar, 
Lo ! the " mystery is finished," Time which is, shall be no more. 
Are you ready ? 

Are you ready, are you waiting for the coming of the Lord ? 
Have you on the wedding garment, as he bade you in his word ? 
Are you ready, when the heavens shall his majesty declare ? 
Are you ready, with the blood-washed, for the greeting in the air ? 
Are you ready ? 

Are you ready, hasten quickly, for the night is nearly gone. 
See ! the Day star tints the heavens, heralding the morning's dawn. 
Lo ! it streaks the dark horizon, all along the eastern sky. 
Hark ! the Charioteers of heaven, like a mighty tempest, fly. 
Are you ready ? 

Art thou ready, sleeping Virgin ? Wake, Oh Wake ! the time is 

near. 
Hark ! the Bridegroom treadeth softly, dost thou not his footstep 

hear? 
Rouse thee, from thy carnal stupor, lest when standing at the gate. 
Thou shalt find it shut and bolted, and the Master say — too late ! 
Art thou ready ? 



256 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

"Who shall Stand when He Appeareth?" 

MAL. Ill : 2. 

" \Y/^^ ^^-sW stand when he^appeareth?" 
W Who shall stand the fiery test ? 
Brother — he \.\\?i.\. persevereth 

He, shall enter into rest. 
He shall hear the Master's plaudit 

" Come ! ye blessed of the Lord." 
In the day of final audit 

His shall be the great reward. 

"Who shall stand when he appeareth ?" 

Who shall wear the promised crown ? 
Brother — he that loveth, feareth 

He, shall hear — " Come sit thee down 
On my Throne " a place is for thee, 

And a Crown of fadeless light, 
He shall reign a King in glory 

Robed in garments pure and white. 

"Who shall stand when he appeareth ?" 

Who shall walk the golden street ? 
Brother — he whose presence cheereth 

Aching hearts, and tired feet. 
He that wipes the tear of sorrow. 

Lifts the fallen, points the way. 
To a brighter now, and morrow. 

He, shall stand the testing day. 

" Who shall stand when he appeareth ?" 

Who shall sing the new, new song ? 
Brother — he that watcheth, heareth, 

He, shall join the blood washed throng ; 
He shall greet the Lord descending, 

Ready, in the judgment glare. 
When the cloudy vail is rending. 

He shall meet the Lord in air. 



"AT EVENING TIME IT SHALL BE LIGHTS 257 



"At Evening Time it shall be Light." 

ZECH. XIV : 7. 
Addressed to MARY 1. PENNYPACKER, on attaining her 82d year.* 



THE day is well nigh spent, evening time has come, 
A golden halo wreathes thy setting sun, 
The evening sky reflects a gorgeous ray, 
More lustrous than life's mid-summer day. 
Celestial glories break upon thy sight, 
The shades depart, thy evening time is light. 

Fourscore years and two, thy long, long day has run. 
Thou hast kept the faith, the victory almost won, 
The heavy cross which he hath helped thee bear, 
Thou gently layest down, a crown to wear ; 
Fourscore years and^two, how bright the night ! 
Day dawns at last — the evening, oh, how bright ! 

Up, up ! the rugged slope, thy feet have pressed, 
O'er many a thorny path and rocky crest. 
O'er rushing torrents deep and dark to thee. 
Yet faltering not, thou saidst — "He leadeth me," 
Till now thou standest on the shining height, 
Transfigured, in the evening's glowing light. 



* At the age of 84 she passed away to her rest. She was in many respects a 
lady of extraordinary character. Originally a Friend, she was afterwards, for 
fifty years, a most estimable member of the Methodist Episcopal Church at Mar- 
shallton. She was a daughter of Jonathan Gause, a noted educator of Chester 
county many years ago. 



258 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

'Tis well to rest awhile upon a mossy seat, 
Where roses breathe a fragrance pure and sweet, 
Amid the cooling shades of BeulaKs flowery glade, 
Where thou mayest hear the harps by angels played. 
Quite on the verge of heaven, beyond the vales of night, 
From whence, supernal splendors make thy evening bright. 

The blessed word ! thy drink, thy meat indeed. 

Thy joy, thy song, thy help in time of need ; 

Thy hope it is, thy shelter, chart and guide, 

By it, thy every want hath been supplied ; 

It points the shining pathway where shall come no night. 

And bathes life's evening shadows, with effulgent light. 

For four score years and two, thou dost watch and wait, 
Thy moving tent is pitched hard by the pearly gate, 
A little while, and victory thou shalt win, 
When he shall say — " My child, come in ! come in !" 
And white robed angels swing wide the golden door, 
And thou shalt pass within, to go without, no more. 

Shall I presume to whisper of a tender tie* 
So lately gone ? The Master knoweth why, 
Though sundered, yet not lost, only gone before, . 
Where loved ones meet, to part again no more. 
How blest indeed thy lot, 'mid earth's dark night, 
How blest ! how blest ! thy evening, oh how bright ! 



* The decease of a son a short time previous. 



LINES ON THE DEA TH OF MY NIECE. 259 



LiiA6s OQ the Early Death of mv Litrie Niece, 
nattie C. H. Wright. 



July 3, 1897, aged 15 years. 



A CHARMING flower beside my pathway grew, 
Kissed by the dews of heaven, of most surpassing hue, 
Entranced, my senses quaffed its sweet perfume, 
As oft I gazed upon the beauty of this lovely bloom. 

I watched it day by day, with strange delight — 
The sunbeam kissed it— I marvelled at the sight — 
Did heaven plant it here, its charms unfold. 
To waft sweet odors, o'er life's bleak wold? 

Surely, oft, I tarried, to breathe its nectared air, 
My life seemed charmed — ne'er a bloom so fair : 
Its bursting splendors, grew beside my feet- 
Beauteous alike in summer, or in winter's sleet. 

But ah, alas ! I paused — 'twas a summer's morn — 
To gaze upon the flower, and lo ! 'twas gone, 
Whither? I cried — tears bedimmed my eyes — 
An angel plucked it, and bore it to the skies. 

Methought I heard a whisper, from the throne, 
"Weep not — Heaven is the floweret's native home ; 
There it blooms — unsullied, fadeless— fair — 
Far lovelier than here — there thou shalt find it — there !" 



26o THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



THE GRACIOUS INVITATION. 

lESUS, the Lamb of God, 
vJ Is on the throne ; 
His blood averts the rod, 

His blood alone. 
His Name is high o'er all, 
He hears the faintest call, 

He heareth me. 

Come trembling sinner thou. 

Do not delay ; 
Mercy awaits thee now. 

Now, is the day. 
Moments are rushing past, 
The night shades gather fast, 

Do not delay. 

Death is upon thy path, 

He bends his bow ; 
His arrows dipped in wrath, 

How swift they go ! 
How dreadful is thy loss. 
Unless beneath the Cross 

Thou sheltered art. 

The Bride— the Church, says come ! 

The Spirit, pleads ; 
Come prodigal, come home ! 

Slight not thy needs. 
The Father seeketh thee, 
He saith with loving plea, 

" Come unto me." 



' 'ABIDE IN HIM. " 261 

Jesus, thou Lamb of God, 

Reach forth thy hand ; 
Break the avenging rod, 

And bid me stand. 
Bear me through the flood. 
Washed in the cleansing blood ; 

Washed in the blood. 



"ABIDE IN HIM." 

John xv : 4. 

ABIDING, oh Saviour in thee, 
Abiding in thee I am blest, 
No evil can come unto me, 

Whilst I'm thine obedient guest, 
My refuge, my fortress, my safety indeed, 
None else can afford me the shelter I need. 

Let darkness and tempest prevail. 

Let sorrows encompass me 'round, 

Let the armies of Satan assail. 

Let the trumpet of judgment resound, 

In Jesus I am safe, whatever betide, 

'Tis an unfailing shelter, in Him to abide. 

How sweet, my abiding in Him, 

How precious the calm of my mind. 

There's nought to disturb the within, 
My all unto Him is resigned — 

My will, my hope, my life, my soul — 

His glory and a crown, my goal. 



262 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



KEEP STEP WITH THE AGE. 

KEEP step with the age, the years hurry by, 
The moments, Hke flashes of Hghtening fly ; 
Thy life is a coil, that shall quickly unroll, 
Don't loiter behind, press on to the goal. 

Keep step with the age, thought pushes ahead. 
We dwell with the living, and not with the dead, 
Life is the shore of a measureless sea. 
That bears in its sands each step made by thee. 

/ 
Keep step with the age, let reason have sway. 
Thy life is too solemn to fritter away ; 
The strongholds of error, the ramparts of wrong, 
Demand all the brave, every arm that is strong. 

Keep step with the age, 'tis our Country's boast, 

Though the Lands of the East pour their hordes on our coast. 

The Christianized thought of this land of the free. 

Must bid superstition and error, to flee. 

Keep step with the age — the powers of mind 
Annihilate space, leave the tempest behind, 
Puts harness on lightening, binds steam as it flies, 
Blends races together in brotherly ties. 



A LITTLE SERMON BY A ROSE. 263 



A LITTLI: SERMON BY A ROSE. 

I'M a little Preacher — I have a sweet message for you, 
Harken to what I am sajdng, my words are so touching and true, 
Now listen, and catch every whisper, and heed every word I may 

say, 
I'll give you a beautiful lesson, and teach you to talk wisdom's way. 
I speak in a voice sweet and tender, my dear young friends you 

may seek. 
My text in the 5th of St. Matthew, the words, " Blessed are the 

meek." 
This is the base of my sermon, I'll make it as plain as I can, 
To prove you that meekness is beauty and blessing, to every man. 
If I speak of myself, you'll forgive me, and please do not think I 

am vain, 
I do it to give an example, of the words I seek to explain. 
You see, in the first place they tell me, my beauty is fair to behold. 
My dress is far richer than velvet, more lustrous than glittering 

gold. 
Do you ask what makes me so lovely, by whom was my fair robe 

given ? 
I answer, 'tis meekness that paints me, my beauties were fashioned 

in heaven, 
I live in sweet peace with my neighbors, no word of unkindness I 

speak. 
Do you wish to be lovely and charming ? then strive to be gentle 

and meek. 
The second sweet lesson I'll give you, is worthy the notice of each ; 
'Tis Humility, pure and unsullied, in spirit, in action and speech, 
If any has ought to be proud of, 'tis myself, I think you'll agree. 
For Solomon in all his splendor was not arrayed like unto me. 
I envy nobody's fine colors, nor care if their beauty exceeds. 
For I'm just as humble 'mong Roses, as when I'm in company 

with weeds. 



264 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Humility, then is the lesson, be humble in all that you do, 
For this is one source of my beauty, and so it will be unto you — 
The third great point in my sermon, Patience, so sweet and benign. 
You see in my life an example, how Beauty and Patience 

combine. 
In darkness, sunshine or tempest you see I am always the same. 
No matter how roughly you use me I never get cross or complain. 
And so unto all I would say, let frettings and murmurings cease, 
^Q patient, in all things be patient, arid live with your neighbors in 

peace — 
The fourth useful lesson I'll give you, is Trust, 'tis a very sweet 

word, 
A trust that is cheerful and hopeful, a trust that is firm in the Lord, 
You see how He tenderly loves me, and sends the sweet sunshine 

and rain, 
To clothe me in beauty and fragrance, to gladden the valley and 

plain. 
And so you should ever be striving to trust in your Father divine. 
For He will provide for your being, as He has provided for mine. 
Moment by moment I trust Him, and thus I am happy and blest. 
Knowing, whatever befalls me, it cannot but be for the best— 
And now I have ended my sermon, on blessings that come to the 

meek, 
I beg you my dear little children, these virtues and blessings to 

seek. 
Remember the lessons I gave you. Humility, Patience and Trust, 
And thus you will sparkle in Beauty, and gain the reward of the 

Just. 



ALL HAIL THE GERMAN' S FATHERLAND. 265 



ALL HAIL THE GERMAN'S EATHERLAND. 



After the Franco-Prussian War, 1870. 



ALL hail the German's Fatherland, 
Her glory deeds have made her grand, 
Grand, in her country's noble fight ; 
Grand, in the valor of her might ; 
Grand, in her contest for the right ; 
All hail ! All hail ! 

All hail ! my own dear Fatherland ; 
No tyrant foe 'gainst thee shall stand, 
Thy valorous hosts, in truth's attire. 
Have girt thy homes by wall of fire, 
Whose sheltering flame shall ne'er expire. 
All hail ! All hail ! 

All hail ! victorious Fatherland, 
All hail ! thy brave heroic band, 
For Fatherland their voice was heard 
At " Saarbruck,''* " Worth'" and " Weisenburg,^ 
Whilst " Sedan " crumbled at thy word, 
All hail ! All hail ! 

All hail ! triumphant Fatherland, 
Baptised in, blood, thy flag so grand. 
Shall wave a synonym of might. 
Of union won in freedom's fight, 
Of victory on the side of right, 
All hail ! All hail ! 



■ The birth-place of the Author. 



266 777^ AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

All hail ! heroic Fatherland, 
Columbia offers thee her hand — 
Exultant throngs press through her gates, 
From sea to sea, from gulf to lakes, 
She greets the new " United States,'' 
All hail ! All hail ! 

All hail ! majestic Fatherland, 
Thy new born glory shall expand — 
True to thy destiny, high and grand. 
Impregnable thy walls shall stand. 
Whilst true to God, and Fatherland, 
All hail ! All hail ! 

All hail ! United Fatherland, 
Thy lovely Rhine— a golden band 
Shall bind thee indissolubly strong ; 
As sweeps her silvery tide along. 
She joins thy merry German song, 
All hail ! All hail ! 

March on ! March on ! dear Fatherland, 
Yet nobler conquests wait thy hand. 
Peace hath her victories, grander far. 
Than clashing arms, or cannon's roar, 
Upon the blood red field of war, 
March on ! March on ! 



LET THE SUNSHINE IN 267 



LET THE SUNSHINE IN. 

OPEN the windows of the soul, 
Let the heavenly sunshine in, 
Bid the clouds of error roll. 

Chase away the pall of sin, 
Death rides on the gloom of night, 
Life drops from the rays of light. 

Cold and chilly is the heart. 

Closed to heaven's sunny beam, 

Streams of love refuse to start. 
Locked in slumber's icy sheen, 

Let the heavenly sunshine in, 

Life and love shall glow within. 

Do not bolt thy golden door. 

Fling it open, open wide. 
Floods of light shall bear thee o'er. 

Float thee on the crystal tide, 
Till the sun tinged wavelets fall. 
And dash, against the jasper wall. 

Let the heavenly sunshine in — 

Darkened minds and gloomy hearts, 

Groping in the vales of sin, 

Need the sunshine's healing arts. 

Human griefs and sorrow's night 

Vanish at the touch of light. 

Let it sparkle in the eye, 

Shine upon the path you seek, 

Gleam in all you do or try, 

Glisten in the words you speak. 

Thus shall dawn a brighter day. 

Bathed in love's divinest ray. 



268 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

Open then thy golden door, 

Let the heavenly sunshine in ! 

Streams of light shall inward pour, 
Chasing out the mists of sin, 

Rays that save, and beams that bless, 

Christ, the Sun of Righteousness. 



N 



"WlAO Shall Separate us from the Love of Christ?" 

■ Romans viii : 35. 

|Y hope is fixed, oh Christ, in thee ; 
What though by tempest driven, 
Though earth and hell assaileth me, 

And skies are tempest riven, 
Thy strength, oh Christ ! is all my plea. 
My faith is fixed alone in thee. 

My faith is fixed, oh Christ ! in thee. 

All else is vain delusion, 
On quaking land, or tossing sea, 

Amid the world's confusion, 
My faith insures my victory. 
While fixed, oh blessed Christ, in thee. 

My love is fixed, oh Christ, in thee, 

No power can dissever. 
Adoringly I bend my knee, 

To thee, oh Christ ! forever ; 
Nor life, nor death, no powers that be, 
Can sever me, oh Christ, from thee. 

Oh Christ, I cling to thee, alone. 

Rooted and fixed am I, in thee. 
My Faith— my Hope— my Shield— my Sun, 

A Rock, and hiding place to me. 
When time which is, shall be no more. 
Let me, oh Christ ! thy Name adore ! 



HONEY AND VINEGAR. 269 



HONEY AND VINEGAR. 

HONEY and vinegar, sour and sweet ; 
Such is the mixture of life, that we greet ; 
Whatever we do, and whatever we eat, 
Whatever we wear, whether common or neat ; 
Whether Httle or much, 'tis the same that we meet, 
Honey and vinegar, sour and sweet. 

Honey and vinegar, sour and sweet, 
'Tis these that we find in the people we meet ; 
Let us be where we will, in the shop or the street. 
In the church or the mart, in the cold or the heat, 
There's a mixture of chaff, with the best of the wheat, 
With honey and vinegar, sour and sweet. 

Honey and vinegar, sour and sweet, 

Is the essence of life in the part, and concrete ; 

In the calm or the storm, in success or defeat ; 

Whether learned or unlearned, in advance or retreat. 

There are smiles of approval and smiles of deceit ; 

There is honey and vinegar, sour and sweet. 

Honey and vinegar, sour and sweet. 
These are the things that we gather and eat ; 
These give the flavor to water and meat ; 
These make the sum of our living complete. 
Of these, we are ever in daily receipt. 
Honey and vinegar, sour and sweet. 

Honey and vinegar, sour and sweet ; 
These are the wages, which daily we meet ; 



270 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

These are the words, which we ever repeat ; 
These are the paths, we press with our feet ; 
All that we see, that we hear, or we greet. 
Is honey and vinegar, sour and sweet. 

Honey and vinegar, sour and sweet, 
When at life's even, I sit in my seat ; 
Tired with toiling on life's weary beat. 
Then let me rest, in a cosy retreat, 
Rid of the sour and vinegar cheat, 
Favored with honey and blest with the sweet. 



NATERAL RELIGION. 

NATERAL religion, that's jist the thing, but they had a tejus 
search, 
A good many years a huntin, fer to find a Noo Lite Church, 
They diskivered when they found it, wot strikes me ez bein odd. 
That 'twas Cain that laid the corner stun, way down in the land of 
Nod. 

Now this Cain was a indypendent chap, long afore he was growed ; 
He wus the fust free thinker thet anybody knowed. 
His father's meetin's he wouldn't 'tend, sez he — " I'll let 'em alone, 
They aint nateral enuff " — so he bilt one of his own. 

His'n wus the fust Noo Lite Church, bilt above the ground, 
Jis 'zackley where he bilt it, 'twas long afore it wus found ; 
But they dug away and grubbed a heep, afore it 'peared to come. 
An 'twas only jis here lately that they found the Corner Stun. 

I'm reely glad they found it, fer there wus in it the 'riginal creed. 
An though 'twas considible musty, an mi'ty hard to read. 
They got a mikerscope, and the words they found wer these — 
" Nateral Religion " — " nuthin's nuthin " — " Think and do es you 
please." 



NATERAL RELIGION. 271 

So from that day to now this Noo Lite faith hez spread ; 
In spite of Adam's Bible it's agoin away ahead. 
I'll tell you why I like it ; it makes the shackels fly — 
It's nateral, free an easy, an that's the reason why — 

The Bible sez, to git along, "Do good to every man," 
" Luv yer naber as yerself," whether or not you can. 
Nateral religion's jis the reverse, it sez, " be wise an sich," 
Yer may luv yer naber if yer kin, pertickly if he's ritch. 

Nateral religion never sez, 3'er must believe or die ; 
It's free and indypendent ez the birds a so'rin high. 
You may think jis wot yer will and bleve it if yer choose. 
Wots use of worryin 'bout yer soul if yer hezn't any to lose ? 

Nateral religion's free ez air — knows no sich word ez sin — 
We take men ez we find 'em, gittin out 'em all we kin ; 
There's nuthin here worth lovin thet gits the people's praise 
Like brite an shinin dollars— them's the creed thet pays. 

Do good to them thet luv you, be kind to them thet's ritch, 
Don't bother 'bout thet feller a wallerin in the ditch ; 
That's wimmin's work, not men's, we've other fish to fry, 
Nateral religion sez, "jis pass that feller by." 

If you see a man imposin on the needy an the weak, 

If he's tryin to rob the widder, why need it blush yer cheek ? 

He's only a worshipin at nater's holy shrine. 

An a provin to the world ftateral religion is divine. 

Yes, "natetal" religion, behold, its noble, grand intent, 
A liftin up and holdin up, and it doesn't cost a cent. 
We hev no use fer preachers, an we've no collectin box, 
An we never ask a feller if his faith is orthodox. 

Nateral religion — intelectooal, sublime ; 

Common sense — unfettered reason— them's the things thet shine ; 
Thet's wot's goin to conker— lay your Bibles on the shelf ; 
Nateral religion — thet's it — every feller fer hisself. 



272 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 



MY yWOTHER'S GRAVE. 

THERE is no spot on earth to me, so sacred or so dear ; 
No spot, where love so quickly drops affection's fondest tear, 
No spot, whose silent sombre shade I so much seek or crave. 
As the little lonely grassy mound, my precious Mother's grave. 

Speak not of sunny climes to me, of flowery slope or dale. 
Of sculptured palace, silvery lakes, of sea or rosy vale ; 
Of joys or treasures rich and rare, nothing I so much crave 
As with uncovered head, to stand, beside my Mother's grave. 

Here as I stand and downward look, upon the grassy plot. 
To me, 'tis nearer Heaven's gate than any other spot ; 
My heart beats quick — my tears fall fast upon the dewy sod, 
'Tis Mother's grave, that bears me up the nearest, to my God. 

'Tis but a little mound of earth, o'er which the rain-drops weep, 
'Round which the summer zephyrs sigh, the wintry tempests sweep, 
Earth has no charm to me like this, none else I seem to crave, 
'Tis Heaven's gate ajar to me— my precious Mother's grave. 

Methinks I hear a tender voice — Be still ! Oh, fluttering breath, 
'Tis like an angel's whisper up from the abyss of death. 
Lowly I bend to listen, and lo ! a sweet refrain — 
" Dry those tears bereft one — thy Mother shall rise again." 

"Rise again" — sweet message — I fain would linger here, 
That I might be the first to see, the form I love so dear. 
But if ere this my fragile form, sinks 'neath death's chilling wave. 
Then lay me in this hallowed spot, beside my Mother's grave. 



MV LIGHT. 273 

MY LIGHT. 

JOHN VIII : 12. 

JESUS, thou art the only light, 
Light of the world, light of my soul ; 
With thee there is no shade of night. 
No clouds can o'er my heavens roll. 

My life is one continuous day. 

It has no evening's sombre lines ; 
No twilight, mars its mellow ray ; 

My Sun, for me, forever shines. 

Jesus, my Sun, serenely bright, 

Circling the orbit of my sky ; 
Thy ceaseless shining makes my light, 

My cheering "Day-spring from on high." 

When earth-born shadows cross my way. 
And earthly skies are veiled in night, 

Jesus my light, with undimmed ray 

Makes day and darkness shine alike. 

My pathway shineth more and more, 

As days and years, their journey run ; 

From this, to yonder farther shore, 
My day hath ne'er a setting sun. 

Oh blessed Lord, my Sun ! my light ! 

May all the world thy shining see ; 
Scatter the damps of earth's chill night. 

Bid all the world see light in thee. 



274 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



'THE DEAD IN CHRIST SHALL RISE EIRST." 

I THESS. IV : i6. 

THE dead in Christ siiall first arise 
To greet his coming from the skies, 
To meet him in the rending air, 
And join the glorious rapture there. 

The slumbering saints, long lost to sight, 
Loosed from the shades of death's dark night. 
Shall come from out their silent gloom— 
And burst the fetters of the tomb — 

Death stands aghast, shrinks back in fright. 
For Christ the Lord appears in sight. 
His conquering voice shakes earth and sky. 
And death and hell before him fly. 

The lingering saints, with girded loin, 
The resurrected millions join, 
'Mid trumpet blast — the signal word, — 
Together greet the coming Lord. 

Long ages, in the shadowy vale, 

The Church toiled on through storm and gale, 

'Mid bitter hate, and fiery scorn, 

In robe of blood and crown of thorn. 

The day of victory dawns at length. 
The Lord Jehovah wields his strength. 
The marshalling hosts of earth and sky. 
Their mighty forces now ally. 

And silent, as the midnight hour. 
When earth asleep in its carnal bower, 



REMEMBER ME. 275 

The Bridegroom's voice proclaims the ban — 
The marriage supper of the Lamb. 

Adoringly at Jesus' feet, 
The saints and holy martyrs meet — 
This, their exceeding great reward — 
To be forever with the Lord. 



REMEMBER ME. 

PSALM CVI : 4. 

SAVIOUR, on thee my soul relies, 
To thee, I turn my tearful eyes. 
My trembling hand I place in thine ; 
Oh, Saviour, let me call thee mine. 
Bid now my fears and doubtings cease, 
And whisper, sweetly whisper, peace. 

A trembling sinner. Lord, am I, 
Yet thou dost bid me venture nigh, 
Thou wilt not spurn me from thy side. 
For thou, for me wast crucified. 
For me, didst bear this grief and pain, 
For me, for me, thou livest again, 

Lo ! now I come just as I am. 
My only plea, the bleeding Lamb, 
My only hope, the risen Lord, 
My only joy, his living word. 
By this I live, on this I stand, 
For me all else is sinking sand. 

When earth shall fade before my eye. 
When loving friends shall say, "Good bye," 



2 76 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 

And bending o'er my couch of death, 
Shall listen to my ebbing breath, 
To Jesus' Cross, my soul shall cling. 
And sing — " Oh death 'where is thy sting." 

And when the angel's trump shall sound. 
And judgment shakes the trembling ground. 
Then Christ shall burst my fettered tomb. 
And sin and death shall meet their doom, 
My soul shall sing in ecstacy 
" Oh grave ! where is thy victory ?" 

There, I shall meet dear loved ones gone, 
Beyond the darkness and the dawn. 
Beyond the shadows and the grave. 
Beyond the stormy tempest wave. 
Where, while eternal ages roll, 
No taint of sin shall mar the soul. 



TO REV. DR. WILLIAM NEWTON.* 



"AND THE Church which is in His house."— c^/. /s^.- 75. 



SALUTE the church within thy walls ! 
The gathered few who worship there. 
Who, lingering till the Master calls. 
Unite in holy song and prayer ; 
Who wait the promise of the Lord, 

To join the humble "two or three," " 
Accepting the "engrafted word," 
The pledge of immortality. 



* West Chester, Pa., May 23, iS 



TO REV. DR. WILLIAM NEWTON. 277 

Truth is not lodged in bricii or stones, 

Nor ritual, however grand, 
Nor sounding bell, nor organ tones. 

Nor temple made by human hand. 
On "fleshy tables" of the heart. 

The Lord engraves the living scroll : 
This is the temple set apart — 

The inner temple of the soul. 

And so the church within thy wall ; 

Amid the darkness of the night, 
Hangs out the Gospel lamp for all. 

And sheds a radiant path of light 
Athwart the dreary wastes of sin ; 

To show the wayworn traveller home ; 
To bid the weary wanderer in, 

And share the glory yet to come. 

Toil on, thou servant of the Lord ! 

The fields are white, the harvest nigh : 
Thy toil shall win its sure reward, 

In gathered sheaves, beyond the sky ; 
For thee, the prayers of saints ascend, 

For length of days, and days of strength, 
And when thy day of toil shall end, 

The promised rest, be thine at length. 

Toil on ! the Lord hath need of thee. 

Watch on ! the morning draweth nigh ; 
Hope on ! thy faith is victory. 

It blesses earth, and rends the sky. 
Again, thy little church salute. 

On Christ, her ^' sure foundation^' stone. 
An angel's mind may not compute 

The stars that shall bedeck thy crown. 



278 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



A PARAPHRASE. 

" Two ears and but a single tongue. 
By Nature's laws to man belong, 
The lesson she would teach, is clear. 
Repeat but half of what your hear," — Anon. 

A SINGLE tongue — two ears to hear, 
Is nature's law so plain and clear ; 
The lesson taught each passing day ; 
Is double all the tongue shall say. 

One tongue — two ears belong to man, 
And herein seems a curious plan, 
The lesson taught, is most complete ; 
Two meanings, has each word we speak. 

Two eyes, two ears and but one tongue, 
To every mortal man belong ; 
The lesson taught is strangely clear. 
Speak but one half, you see and hear. 



THE TARRYING CLOUD. 

Numbers ix : 22. 



T' 



"HE pillared cloud hangs low, 
I dare not forward go : 
I cannot see ahead, my path is hid. 
Lord, here I stand, I cannot see 
To take one step, oh, let me be 
But patient Lord, till thou shalt bid 
Me onward go. 



THE TARRYING CLOUD. 279 

The Ark resteth, but lo ! 

The pillared cloud doth show 
'Tis there, though shrouded in the mist ; 

'Tis thus the murky cloud, 

E'en though a misty shroud. 
Reveals my Guide, gently to insist 

His way — not mine. 

I wait thy bidding Lord, 

Till thou shalt speak the word, 
And lift the cloud, that hides my further way. 

If here, I must abide, 

I would not turn aside. 
Though thou shouldst slay me Lord, I still would say 

"Thy will be done." 

I wait thy beckoning hand. 

When to move, or stand ; 
My hope, my heart, my faith's persistent eye 

Is set toward the land, 

Beyond old Jordan's strand, 
Where milk and honey flow, and fadeless pastures lie— 

The promised rest. 

How grateful then, the shade, 

Within this sultry glade. 
This canopy of cloud, that hangs o'erhead, 

I only ask to know, 

When to halt, or go. 
And to be sure, that I'm divinely led, 

Each day, by thee. 



28o THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



AN OLD MAN'S SOLILOQUY. 



Modeled after holmes' "Last leaf." 



I WAS once a romping boy, 
With a light heart full of joy, 
And of wit. 
There was not a boy in town, 
Of my size, could put me down, 
All admit. 

I could climb and leap and run, 
I was full of tricks and fun, 

All agree. 
And if mischief ever came, 
I was sure to get the blame. 

Always me. 

But now I'm getting old, 

And my limbs grow stiff and cold. 

And the years — 
Like a meteor in the sky. 
While we watch it darting by. 

Disappears. 

Nearly all my friends are gone. 
And I find myself alone. 

Sad to say. 
When I walk the crowded street, 
Scarce a friendly face I meet. 

On my way. 



AN OLD MAN'S SOL/LOO UK 281 

In the years of early life, 
I was favored with a wife, 

Now I've none — 
And a little face so fair, 
Dimpled cheek and golden hair — 

Both are gone ! 

Oh, it seems a cruel dream, 

But they've crossed the silent stream 

Long ago. 
And I'm left alone to weep, 
While the weary moments creep 

Sad and low. 

Ah, my race is nearly run, 
And my days of toil are done, 

Nearly all. 
I am listening, while I wait, 
For the opening of the gate. 

For the call. 

There, among the shining bands, 
In the house not made with hands, 

Bright and fair. 
We shall meet, no more to die, 
We shall never say " Good bye " 

Over there. 



282 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 



V 



Ode to the Court House Stone-wall Brigade. 

"HERE they are ! a noble band ; 
A legion brave and true. 
From morn 'till night they sit or stand, 
With nothing else to do. 
With fiery eye and visage grim, most dreadfully appalling, 
Their only business seems to be, to keep the wall from falling. 

They press against the old stone-wall. 

They lounge upon the top. 
They lean, they push, they lie or sprawl, 
They stand erect or squat. 
With vacant stare, or languid eye, the weary hours drawling. 
Their greatest trouble seems to be, to keep the wall from falling. 

• From early morn to sunny noon, 

Till evening's tranquil hour ; 
They seem as placid as the moon 
About the price of flour. 
Their ears are slow to hear the voice of hunger, loudly calling: 
Their greatest effort seems to be, to keep the wall from falling. 

They yawn, they stretch, they stare and grin. 

They ask no flag of truce. 

Their guns are shotted to the brim, 

And shoot tobacco juice. 

Tobacco never gets too high ; flour not worth the hauling, 

Their only effort seems to be, to keep the wall from falling. 

Unterrified and undismayed. 

The bravest of their sort ; 
They daily meet on dress parade 
And bravely hold the fort. 
They stand like sentinels of wood, sometimes they go it sprawling, 
But still their greatest effort is, to keep the wall from falling. 



ODE rO THE STONE-WALL BRIGADE. 283 

They stare at ladies going by, 
Untutored and unskilled-;— 
Save in the art of getting dry, 

They've not been rightly drilled. 
"Ground arms" and "rest" they understand ; their drill is most 

appalling, 
Their only effort seems to be, to keep the wall from falling. 

They stand as moveless as a tree. 

Quite indisposed to think ; 
And only hurry, whey they see 
A dog fight, or a drink. 
With quenchless thirst, and empty purse, which must indeed be 

galling, 
Their agonizing effort is, to keep the wall from falling. 

They need no monumental stone. 

Their valor to recall ; 
They live in purpose, brain and bone, 
Embalmed in alcohol. 
And so the brave stone-wall brigade maintains its noble calling. 
Which is, with all their might and main, to keep that wall from 
falling. 

[ 1886. ] 



284 THE AMEN CORNER AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE OLD "WHIG OmCE."* 

LIKE a phantom ghost on a storm swept hill 
Heedless of all it sees or hears ; 
Stands the old Whig office mute and still, 
A relic of the by-gone years. 

A remnant of the perished past, 

A vessel stranded by the gale, 
A ship bereft of crew and mast, 

Without a sea in which to sail. 

Its once proud pendant floats no more, 
Gone down amid the wrecks of time : 

The honored names which once it bore, 
No longer on its banners shine. 

I pause, on life's eventful track, 

Retrace my steps to days of yore. 

Across long years I wander back 
To "forty" and to "forty-four." 

Strange memories crowd upon the mind. 
Of party tumult, din and strife ; 

Slowly the scrolls of time unwind, 

And scenes long dead, leap into life. 

The old log cabins go rumbling by, 
The lUsty crowds pass in review, 

I hear their song, Hurrah ! they cry, 
For "Tippecanoe and Tyler too." 



* The inscription, still seen on the marble slab over the Basement doorway, at 
the east end of the " Mansion House," on Market street, West Chester, Pa., where 
at one time, many years ago, a political paper called the " Whig" was printed. 
This Basement was also the cradle of the old "Jeffersonian." 



THE OLD ''WHIG OFFICER 285 

Their prancing steeds, their crowded teams, 
Go surging through the embowered streets, 

And all day long in ceaseless streams. 
The mighty current onward sweeps. 

When lo ! one chill November morn. 

The old " Whig office " gleams anew ; 

And blows aloud the victor's horn. 
For "Tippecanoe and Tyler too." 

The old "Whig office" shakes her sides ; 

Her old press joins the glad applaud ; 
With haste the burdened Post-boy rides, 

To spread the joyful news abroad. 

A quarto page of years roll by — 

Once more is heard the drum's quick beat ; 
The old Whig army rubs its eye, 

And wakes as from a dreamy sleep. 

Again, the old "Whig office" flames, 

Again, resound her notes of war, 
As marshalled 'neath heroic names. 

She spreads her flags in " forty- four." 

From hill and dale the shouts expand. 

They sing the old Whig songs anew, 
And firm the old Whig legions stand. 

For Clay and Frelinghuysen, true. 

'Twas on a day in rosy June, 

The old Whig army stormed its way ; 

Through all these streets their cannon boom, 
And thunder loud for Henry Clay. 

The deafening shouts, the steady tread. 

The noisy bands, the rumbling teams ; 
The clattering hoofs, the banners spread. 
To memory comes like fairy dreams. 



286 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

All day long their voices ring, 

The mighty cohorts come and go ; 

The troops of dusty mill boys sing, 
The " mill boy of the slashes oh." 

The "mill boy of the slashes oh," 

Floats on the fragrant breath of June ; 

The Democratic Roosters crow 

Their dying gasp, beneath the coon. 

But fierce the taunting " Locies "* grew. 

They sing, "Oh Cooney, Cooney Clay," 

The " White House ne'er was made for you," . 
" At home you'd better' try to stay." 

And so the sorry sequel proved, 

The nation mourned the sad decree ; 

The man that to the White House moved, 
Was James K. Polk, of Tennessee. 

The old Whig army bent with age, 

Now trembles on the verge of doom : 

Amid a glorious pilgrimage 

She dies, and fills an honored tomb. 

She sleeps her last eternal sleep. 

Her tattered flags are laid away : 

Illustrious in her winding sheet, 
She has no resurrection day. 



*A contraction of "Locofoco," applied by the Whigs of that day to the 
Democrats. 



GENESIS— FIRST CHAPTER. 287 



GENESIS-nrst Chapter. 

IN the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth, 
By his Almighty fiat, creation had its birth, 

2. The earth without form and void, and darkness on the deep, 
God's Spirit brooded o'er the gloom, above the watery 

sweep. 

3. God said— " Let there be light," and the darkness took its 

flight, 

4. And God pronounced it good, dividing darkness from the 

light. 

5. God called the light, the "day," and the darkness, he called 

"night," 
And the evening and the morning, were the fit^st of new-born 
light. 

6. And God ordained a firmament, the waters to divide. 
And set a bounded line between, amid the watery tide, 

7. God spake, and lo ! the work was done, the mighty deep was 

stirred. 
The floods below, the floods above, obeyed his mighty word, 

8. The firmament he called " heaven," the mists he chased away, 
And the evening and the morning were the second new-born 

day. 

9. And God said " Let the waters all be gathered into one. 
And let dry land appear, ' ' and lo ! at once, the work was done. 

10. God called the dry land "earth," and the waters called he 

seas. 
And God perceived that all was good, all things his purpose 
please, 

11. And God said "Let the earth bring forth the grass, the herb 

and seed. 
Fruit trees yielding fruit and good, for all his creatures need," 

12. And the earth obeyed his fiat, bringing forth the grass, the 

herb. 
Yielding seed, and tree, and fruit, at the bidding of his word. 



288 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

13. And the evening and the morning, were the //^/rof eventful day, 
Bespeaking matchless power, and the Lord Jehovah's sway. 

14. God said, "Let there be lights! above, dividing day from 

night. 
Let them be for signs and seasons," for days and years alike, 

15. And let them each be lights, in the firmament of heaven, 

To give light upon the earth ; and the bars of night were riven. 

16. And God made two great lights, the greater for the day, 
The lesser light to rule the night. He made the starry ray. 

17. God set them in the bounds of space, to light the verdant earth, 

18. To rule the day, and rule the night, as kings of royal birth. 
To mark the line 'twixt light and shade, this wall of wonder 

stood. 
And God beheld what he had made, and saw that it was good, 

19. The evening and the morning, were \\\& fourth illustrious day, 
All radiant with the splendors of Jehovah's awful sway, 

20. And God said "Let the waters, bring forth abundant life," 
"Let the air be filled with fowl," all uniting without strife, 

21. And God created whales, to enrich the watery sweep. 
Great fish and moving creatures, swimming in the roaring 

deep. 
Winged fowl and flying bird, with all the feathery brood, 
God smiled upon his labor, seeing all he made was good. 

22. And God blessed all and said, "Be fruitful, multiply," 
Fill the waters of the seas, and the earth with fowl that fly. 

23. And the evening and the morning were the fifth created day ; 
Which the Lord himself had made, to attest his mighty sway. 

24. God said, " Let earth bring forth, living creatures of its kind," 
" Cattle, creeping things and beasts," according to his mind ; 
Twas done as he commanded, in obedience to his will, 
Earth, air and mighty ocean, with life and beauty fill. 

25. And so God made the beasts of earth, and every living thing. 
And saw that all was good and fair ; his praise, all creatures 

sing. 

26. God said "Let us make man " — in our image, likeness, form, 
With dominion over fish and fowl, and o'er the cattle born. 
O'er every creeping thing and beast, above, or on the earth. 
Embracing all that live and move, whom God had given birth. 



MATTHEW-FIRST CHAPTER. 289 

27. So God created man, in his image made he him, 

Male and female made he them, pure and free from taint of 
sin. 

28. God blessed them, and he said, be fruitful, multiply. 
Subdue the earth, replenish it, adorn and beautify. 

Have dominion o'er the sea and air, and over all the earth. 
As a ruler called of God, as a king of royal birth. 

29. God said, behold I give you, every herb which beareth seed, 
Every plant, and every tree, yielding fruit for human need, 

30. And to every beast on earth, and to every fowl in air. 
Everything that creeps and moves, all for thee they live and 

are. 
Every herb and shrub and tree, I appoint as food and meat. 
For thy pleasure they are made, that thou mayest have to eat, 

31. And God saw what he had made, and behold ! twas very 

good — 
The sixth day's work was ended— complete, creation stood. 



MATTHEW— rirst Chapter. 

THE book of the Generation of Jesus Christ the Lord, 
Who was the Son of David, and whom Abram's faith adored. 

2. Abram begat Isaac, Jacob, Isaac's son, we call. 

And Jacob begat Judas, and his brethren, twelve in all, 

3. And Judas begat Phares, and Zara of Thamar, 
Phares begat Esrom, next Ezrom and Aram are. 

4. Aram begat Aminnadab, Aminnadab, Naasson, 
And Naasson, begat a son, and named him Salmon, 

5. And Salmon begat Booz, of Rechab's line he grew, 
Booz begat Obed of Ruth, and Obed Jesse too. 

6. And Jesse begat David, a king of wonderous life, 
And David begat Solomon, of Uriah's widowed wife, 

7. Solomon begat Rehoboam, and Rehoboam, Abia, 
Abia begat Asa, in royal line still higher. 

8. And Asa begat Josaphat, and Joram follows next, 
Joram begat Ozias, to verify the text. 



290 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

9. Then Ozias begat Joatham, Achan is next in line, 

Then Achaz begat Ezekias, to show the Lord's design. 

10. Esekias, Manassas, Manassas then Amon, 

Then Josias follows after, and so the line goes on. 

11. Jeconias and his brethren, now appear in sight, 

In the time of Israel's sorrow, in the Babylonian night, 

12. In the night of Babel bondage, was born Salalthiel, 
Then Salalthiel of Jeconias, begat Zerubbable. 

13. Zerubbable begat Abiud, and Abiud, Eliakim, 
Then Azor, the son of Eliakim, was next to enter in, 

14. Azor begat Sadoc, and Sadoc begat Achim, 
And Achim begat Eliud, in the line of royal kin. 

15. Eliud, Eliazar, Eliazar, then Matthan, 
Matthan begat a son, Jacob is the honored man, 

16. And Jacob begat Joseph, of most exalted fame, 
Joseph betrothed to Mary, of most illustrious claim, 

The highest among all women, whom men and angels laud. 
The ever blessed mother of the holy Son of God. 

17. The geaerations from Abraham, to David are fourteen. 
And from David unto Babylon, is a like division seen, 
And from Babylon unto Jesus, the same again we view, 
Three times fourteen generations, makes the number forty-two. 

18. Now the birth of Jesus Christ, is declared upon this wise, 
His mother, pledged to Joseph, close bound by nuptial ties. 
By the Holy Ghost was honored, as the mother of a child. 
Not by human will nor purpose, holy, pure and undefiled. 

19. Joseph, her espoused husband, blind to heaven's strange 

decree. 
Seeks to hide his loved companion, where no public eye can 
see. 

20. But, while pondering o'er this mystery, lo ! the Angel of the 

Lord, 
Stood before the troubled Joseph, with a most assuring word, 
"Joseph, son of royal David, let no fears disturb thy life. 
Do not fear to honor Mary, as thy pure unsullied wife. 
Her conception is not human, free from taint and earthly boast. 
Highest crowned of mortal women, honored by the Holy 

Ghost " — 



A NEW YEAR'S GREETING— 1897. 291 

21. Lo ! the wonderous Angel Message—" she shall bear a Royal 

Son," 
Richest gift to earth, from heaven, pure and spotless, Holy- 
One, 
He shall bear the name of Jesus— wonderful, the fame he wins, 
Jesus ! for he saves his people, from their crushing weight of 
sins. 

22. Now 'twas done, all things fulfilling, spoken by the Prophet's 

word, 
But who spake the message given, from the Everlasting Lord, 

23. Behold a Virgin shall bring forth, a son of wonderous fame, 
Of marvellous skill and power — Emmanuel his name. 
Marvel'ous is the Prophet's word, Emmanuel ! 'tis thus, 
Which interpreted, discloses, " Emmanuel " — God ivith us. 

24. Then Joseph rising from his sleep, obeys the Angel of the Lord, 
Receives the Virgin as his wife, and pledges her his word. 

25 Faithful in his loved affection, true to her whose love he won, 
Till he gave the name of Jesus, to her promised, first born Son . 



A NEW YEAR'S GREETING— 1597. 

WELCOME New Year ! 
With merry cheer, 
I welcome you : 

Locked up within your tightened grasp. 
Is aught of joy for me, I ask ? 
Is aught of joy ? 

What e'er shall come, 

Dark clouds or sun, 

Hard toil or rest. 

Be what is best ; 

What e'er thou hast in store for me 

Contented, with my lot I'd be, 

Till years shall end. 



292 THE AMEN CORNER AND O THER POEMS. 

Come then, New Year ! 

Light up and cheer 

The path I tread — 

Bright flowers spread, 

Till all about my treading feet. 

Exhales a perfume, pure and sweet ; 

Like Eden's vale. 

A gift from heaven. 

Be Ninety-seven : 

Each passing day, 

A sunny ray, 

That summing up the year's extent, 

To me, 'tmay be a year well spent ; 

A year well spent ! 



rAREWELL! 

I SAW a tiny leaf, swayed by the autumn blast, 
Sprinkled with amethyst, sardius and gold ; 
The sturdy old bough to which it clung so fast 

Seemed loath to give it up, despite its tender hold. 
The bleak wind sighed, as it swept o'er hill and dale. 
The wooded hills bowed 'neath the tempest swell, 
The tiny leaf quivered on the frosty gale. 

And to the old stricken bough, whispered its last " farewell," 
Farewell ! 

I saw a rosy apple in an orchard fair, 

Nestling 'mid the sheltering leaves, in blushing glee, 
It smiled defiance to the blustering gusty air. 

And seemingly shouted — " What care I for thee ? " 
The brawny tempest shook the bough in rage, 

And madly shrieked its solemn requiem knell — 
The rosy fruit shuddered amid the grim presage, 

And letting go its hold, muttered a faint " farewell," 
Farewell ! 



FAREWELL! 293 

I saw a noble ship, its white sails spread ; 

Its teeming decks merry with a jubilant throng, 
Upon the placid wave so gracefully it sped, 

While o'er the gentle billows rippled a lover's song- 
Far out upon the dreary watery waste, 

The forked lightnings cleaved the roaring swell, 
A crash is heard, then a wild tumultuous haste, 

A sudden silence next, then a submerged " farewell," 
Farewell ! 

I saw a lovely child upon the village green, 

Its golden curls entwined by flowers of June, 
Its ruby cheek fairer than a Fairy Queen, 

And might be envied e'en by the rose's bloom. 
At eve, a drowsy prayer, "Now I lay me— I lay me down to 
sleep " — 

The village church, tolls its evening bell ; 
With upward glance it whispers—" I pray my soul to keep," 

When lo ! its faint amen ! becomes an unexpressed "farewell," 
Farewell ! 



Alphalxl-iccil List of Contents. 



A Love Feast Long Ago, 

A Religion That Will Not Mix, 

Abi's Opinion Of Men, 

A Sermon From The Pew, 

An Epitaph, . 

Anatomy Of Alcohol, 

A Bouquet Of Tears, . 

A Reverie, 

A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss, 

A Lock Of Mother's Hair, 

A Very Present Help Is He, 

A Printer's Wedding Anniversary, 

Are You Ready ? 

At Eve It Shall Be Light— To Mrs. M. I. 

Abide In Him, 

A Little Sermon By A Rose, 

All Hail, Fatherland, . 

A Paraphrase, 

An Old Man's Soliloquy, 

Bear Ye One-Another's Burdens, 
Behold The Man, 

Church Sociable, 

Compton, Rev. A. G. ( Anniversary ) 

Church In Lucre Hollow, . 

Culver, Sanford, ( Memoriam ) . 

Christmas, A Hundred Years To Come, 

Chichester Friends' Meeting House, 

Countin Chickens 'For Theyse Hatched, 

( 295 ) 



38 
96 

99 
137 
147 
148 
160 
187 
197 
211 
235 
245 
254 
257 
261 
263 
265 
278 
280 

30 
107 

22 

25 
28 
46 
63 
152 
181 



296 ALPHABETICAL LIST OF CONTENTS. 

PAGE, 

Century's Jubilee, ..... 202 

Crucified With Christ, . . . . 227 

Defining A Gentleman, .... 125 

Does It Pay ? . . . . .174 

Do Not Wait, . . . . .226 

Eureka, ...... 196 

For Thee And Me, . . . . .206 

For Me— For Me, . . . .207 

Free Indeed, ..... 219 

For Me To Live Is Christ, . . . 249 

Farewell, ...... 292 

Gettysburg, ..... 75 

God Forbid That I Should Glory, . . .210 

Gracious Invitation, .... 260 

Genesis — First Chapter, .... 287 

How Some Men Rain At Home, ... 98 

Honey And Vinegar, ..... 269 

I'm Just Fifteen To-day, .... 41 

In Gold We Trust, . . . . .53 

I Will Give You Rest, .... 60 

In The Shadow Of The Cross, . . . .61 

I Say Unto You Watch ! . . . . 162 

I In Them And Thou In Me, . . . .214 
It Is I, Be Not Afraid, . . . .233 

If Children, Then Heirs, . . " . -239 

Johnny's Christmas Eve, .... 91 

Jefferis, J. Bayard ( Memoriam ), . . . 121 

Joner Swallerin A Whale, .... 172 

Jinin The Odd Fellers, . . . -193 

Jeems' New Beaver Hat, . . . . 243 

Keep Step With The Age, . .... .262 

Lindenshade, . . . . . 141 

Let Your Light Shine, . ... . .151 

Lift Up Your Heads Ye Gates, . . .205 



ALPHABETICAL LIST OF CONTENTS. 297 

PAGE, 

Let There Be Light, ..... 220 
Let The Sunshine In, . . . . 267 

My Creed, . . . . . -36 

My Mother's Face, . . • . 58 

Matildy Goes To Meetin, . . . .67 

Mother Of The Regiment, . . .• . 80 

Matildy Comes To Town, . . , .88 

My Brother's Grave, .... 120 

Mysterious Sunsets, . . . . . 122 

My Mother's Garden, .... 145 

My Mother's Hand, . . . . -154 

Monument Of Charles Wesley, . . . 158 

Monument Of The Ninety-seventh Regiment, P. V., . 215 

Maud DeFlighty, ..... 222 
My Mother's Grave, ..... 272 

My Light, ..... 273 

Matthew— First Chapter, . . . . 289 

None Other Name, .... 49 

Nature's Poem, . . . . -72 

Newton, Rev. Dr. William ( Memoriam ), . . 159 

Nuthin Like The Money, . . . , 250 

Natral Religion, ..... 270 

New Year's Greeting — 1897, .... 291 

Ode to Chester, ..... 11 

Old Barnard Street School, . . . -43 

Old Father Time, . . . . . 65 

Old Washington Hotel (An Incident), . . .82 

One Year Of Rest, .... 155 

Our Ranks Are Getting Thin, .... 183 

Oh Grave ! Where Is Thy Victory ? . . . 212 

One By One, ...... 229 

Only Believe, ..... 234 

On Death of Little Niece, . . . . 259 

Ode to Stone Wall Brigade, . . . 282 

Praise Waiteth For Thee, .... 208 



298 ALPHABETICAL LIST OF CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Quaker Meeting, ..... 104 

Questions Answered, ..... 165 

Resurrection of Lazarus, . . . . 127 

Remember Me, . . . • . . 275 

Song Of The Old Church Rell, ... 48 

Strait Is The Gate, . . . . ■7? 

Speakman, R. C. — Birthday, . . . 143 

Satan's Railway, . . . . . 190 

Seventy-fifth Birthday— ( P. M. Fell ), . . 228 

Stiteler, Mary A. — Memoriam, .... 236 

Superannuated, . . . . . 237 

The Amen Corner, . . . . -9 

The Old Town Clock, .... 32 

The Old Family Pump, . . . .56 

The Little Log Church, . . . .69 

The Old Bell Ringer, . . . . -90 

The Church Fair, • • ■ • 93 

The Infidels of Buncombe, . . . .101 

The Blessed Mercy Seat, . . . .124 

To My Wife, . . ... . .140 

Two Years Of Absence, . . . . 157 

The Human Flea, ..... 163 

There Is A Name, . . . .166 

The Parson's Vacation, . . . .168 

The Noo Religion, . . . .170 

The Tongue Can No Man Tame, . . ■ • i75 

Them Nabers, ..... i77 

To A Pet Canary, . . . . . • 185 

The Gospel Railway, .... 188 

The Meetin House Is Split, .... 199 

Thou Shalt Call His Name Jesus, . . .218 

There Remaineth A Rest, . . . .232 

The Dead In Christ, . . ^ . . 274 

To Rev. Dr. Newton— Salutatory, . . . 276 

The Tarrying Cloud, . . . . 278 

The Old Whig Office, . . . .284 



ALPHABETICAL LIST OF CONTENTS. 
Up In An Attic, . 






299 

PAGE. 
149 



Vere Ish Dot Grandt Old Gounty Fair ? 

Volapuk, . y ■ ■ . .179 



240 



What Is Your Life ? 

Wots Men Agoin To Do ? . . " ' • 2b 

Watchman, What Of The Night ? " . " " ^^ 

When Mother Died, .'' . ' ' -51 

We Love The Starry Flag. . ' ' ' ^^ 

What Shall We Do With The Boys ? " . " J^2 

Who Shall Stand When He Appeareth? . ' III 

Who Shall Separate Us From Christ ? . ' '268 



^MK«g&M^* 




